


Reared HImself A Throne

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: AU, Alternate Universes, Angst, Drama, First Times, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 09:56:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 62,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Jim Ellison meets a mysterious illusionist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reared HImself A Throne

## Reared HImself A Throne

#### by PJ

  
The Sentinel is the legal property of Pet Fly Productions, Paramount and The Sci Fi Channel. No money exchanged hands for this story.  
Many thanks to WoD for her excellent beta work. Any mistakes are mine, as I tend to be rather stubborn. This story first appeared in the zine Other Lives #2, but it has been cleaned up and some parts re-written prior to posting it here.  
I have gone through the warning list most carefully, and I feel I have chosen all that I could and not destroy the impact of the story. If some people become upset with me; I'm truly sorry, but I feel most strongly about this.  


* * *

**REARED HIMSELF A THRONE**

by  
PJ 

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne  
In a strange city, lying alone  
Far down among the dim West,  
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest. 

Edgar Allan Poe  
The City in the Sea 

Powerful, multicolored stage lights swiveled and spun, alternately highlighting and concealing the frenetic action on the large wooden stage. Four scantily dressed young women twirled and capered alongside six brawny youths clad only in tight leather trousers. Muscled chests shining with perspiration, the young men were maneuvering three large, brilliantly-hued cabinets around the stage, whirling them about to show all sides. In the center of this seething mass, stood one man. His long, dark, curly hair was pulled back and tied at the nape of the neck with a blue ribbon. Dressed in a simple gleaming-white formal shirt, black silk trousers, and a sapphire-blue cummerbund, he strode among his assistants, arms waving in grandiose gestures, directing the placement of each cabinet. Finally, they stopped: one box positioned stage right, another at center stage and the third at stage left. Each item having been placed to his satisfaction, the man whirled and faced the rapt audience, arms outspread. The footlights captured a young, poetically handsome face; bright blue topaz eyes glittered and shone. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," he called in a warm baritone, lowering his arms. "Remember what I have tried to teach you tonight. Everything is an illusion!" A sudden snap of graceful fingers and a bouquet of red roses appeared in his left hand. "Do not trust what you think you see with your eyes." With a flourish of his right hand, he produced a silky red scarf and draped it over his left, encasing the flowers. The conjurer twirled his right hand over his left, slowly, in a counter-clockwise motion. "For your eyes will mislead you. You will see only this." At that moment, the young man grabbed the scarf, flicking it off his left hand. His empty left hand. Before the audience could react, he went on, ".instead of this!" A snap of the fingers on both hands, and a shower of miniature red roses rained down on the enthralled watchers. 

As one, the audience gasped then cheered, hundreds of people raising their hands to try to catch the tiny mementos. 

The entertainer silently accepted their accolades, a small smile gracing his full lips. He bowed, then moved toward the box at center stage. Opening the long door on the front, he continued his spiel. "You think you have good eyes, that you see well." He stepped into the box. One of his female assistants, a red-head, closed the door, and after showing the waiting crowd a large padlock, proceeded to lock the entertainer in. She then produced two other padlocks, one for each of the other cabinets. It was the work of seconds to lock those, too. 

"For you thought you saw me step into one cabinet." Echoing eerily, the magician's voice filled the theater. It seemed to come from everywhere, yet nowhere. "But did you?" 

Intent, the audience watched as the young men twirled each box around. When they stopped, each box was in a different position. 

"Am I really in this cabinet?" 

At those words, the copper-maned woman skipped over to the first box and, showing the audience a key, unlocked the box. With a flamboyant gesture, she threw wide the door. The box was empty. 

"Perhaps I am in this cabinet over here?" 

At a gesture from the female assistant, the young men once again whirled the two remaining boxes; again placing them in different positions. Stepping up to one, the woman unlocked the box and opened the door. It, too, was empty. 

"No?" The voice seemed very amused. "Then I must be in the last cabinet." 

Once again, the young men twirled the remaining box. Holding the key up for all to see, the female assistant unlocked the door and flung it open. There was no one inside. 

Gasps and muted exclamations filled the auditorium. Loud whispers could be heard as the audience craned their necks to see if they could spot the entertainer. As the crowd shifted in their seats, the distinctive voice cut into the rising noise. 

"Or, actually, I could be right over here." 

A bright spotlight swooped and panned, then stopped, pinpointing a seat in the middle of the fifth row. 

It was the magician. 

Loud applause and whistles filled the cavernous room as the young man stood and bowed. Carefully exiting the row, he strode back up the aisle, taking the steps to the stage two at a time. Once more at center stage, he bowed time and again as his audience continued to show their appreciation of his talent. 

"Shaman! Shaman!" chanted the crowd, clapping wildly. 

Finally, smiling broadly, Shaman held up his hands for silence. 

"Thank you, thank you. Your praise for my humble skills is most flattering." The young man brought his hands together and bowed again. "It is time to demonstrate yet another way your eyes can be fooled. This next illusion has been done by every practicing illusionist in history, I will admit. Yet, I think, if you will but indulge me, you will see that even the old can be made new and fresh." 

As the illusionist had been speaking, his male assistants had wheeled off the three previous cabinets. In their place, they brought in a large, clear box. It was set directly center stage. The magician clapped his hands and the youths gathered in a line, stage right. The female assistants were gathered stage left. 

"Now for the most important feature of this performance." Shaman looked out into the audience and held out one hand. "A volunteer, please." 

A rustle went up in the crowd as they shifted and looked at one another. 

The illusionist chuckled, warm and deep. "Man or woman, it makes no difference. This is a truly non-sexist illusion." 

Scattered laughter came from the audience. Then a young girl in the third row stood up, obviously flustered and embarrassed, but determined. She couldn't have been more than twenty-one, with shimmering blonde hair and wide brown eyes. 

"Excellent, excellent," crooned Shaman. "Tomas, if you would be so kind as to escort the lovely lady up here, we shall continue to mystify and astound." 

One of the waiting male assistants bounded off the stage and, coming up to the young woman, offered her his arm. Blushing deeply enough to be seen from several rows away, the girl accepted the chivalrous gesture and allowed herself to be led up the stairs and onto the stage. 

"What is your name, sweet lady?" queried the entertainer, giving her a wide smile. It only served to further fluster the young woman. 

"C-Cindy," she stammered, blushing furiously. 

"Well, Miss Cindy, if you would be so kind as to step over here with me." Without touching the girl, Shaman led her over to the cabinet. He stopped there as a blonde female assistant ran over with a large, bulky mass wrapped up in bright yellow cloth. Throwing back a piece of the cloth, the magician displayed seven shining swords. He held one up for Cindy, and the audience, to see. 

"I believe Miss Cindy, as well as the rest of you, now get the point of this illusion." 

Muted groans and snickers greeted that sally. Onstage, Cindy also giggled, finally starting to appear less ill at ease. 

Laughing loudly, Shaman threw back the door to the box. "Well, I have never claimed to be a comedian." He ushered the young woman into the box. "Close your eyes, Miss Cindy, for wondrous surprises await you." 

Dutifully, she closed her eyes, scrunching up her face in anticipation. The blonde female assistant shut the door, then secured it. Smoke started to emerge from the bottom of the plastic box, obscuring the young woman. 

"I know you are all familiar with the sword-through-the-cabinet trick," began Shaman, pacing back and forth as he twirled the sword in his hand. "But have you ever seen.it performed in full view of an audience?" 

A careful observer would have noted the slight hesitation in the practiced speech, seen the small frown cross the magician's wide brow. Surreptitiously giving a quick glance around the auditorium, he went on, "Yes, the smoke will clear and all of you will watch as I proceed to skewer this lovely.young lady." Another minuscule pause. "For I do not propose to leave you in the dark." 

At that moment, all the lights in the theater went out. 

Quiet whispers turned into loud shouts for lights. From out of the darkness, came the illusionist's quiet, unruffled voice. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm and in your seats. My assistants and the theater staff are even now gathering flashlights. I am sure this disruption is only temporary." 

A multitude of small lights began appearing all over the auditorium as the magician's assistants and theater ushers arrived with the flashlights. Able to see, if only vaguely, the crowd settled down somewhat, eyeing the stage with anticipation. Indeed, more than a few whispers were heard maintaining that this was only part of the act. 

Onstage, several men had loosely gathered around the entertainer. Nodding his head, once, twice, Shaman stepped back toward the sword cabinet and the hapless girl still inside. 

The men left the stage. Opening the box, the magician waved the bewildered girl out. "I am truly sorry, Miss Cindy, but it appears the electrical system has decided to take exception to our performance." Groans and murmurs of disappointment came from the audience. 

Seeing Cindy's face fall, Shaman flicked his right wrist, then held out a beautiful, long stemmed red rose. "This is for you, my lovely volunteer. Not quite the surprise I had hoped to gift you with, but it will have to do." 

At a nod of the dark head, Tomas hurriedly returned to the stage and escorted Cindy back to her seat. 

Once she was seated, Shaman addressed the crowd. 

"It is with deep regret that I must cut short this performance. The theater manager has informed me the electricians are doing their best, but it seems it will be quite some time before the power is restored." Before the disgruntled mutters in the audience could become overwhelming, he continued, "As you know, I had planned to end my tour here in Cascade next Friday. However, due to this unfortunate circumstance, I have decided to do one more performance on the Saturday. The theater manager and I would be most gratified if all of you could join me. For free, of course." 

Loud applause and cheers broke out in the dimly lit theater. 

"The theater manager has asked me to remind you to please retain tonight's ticket stubs. Those will be your passport for the Saturday show. Until that time, I bid you all good night, and again, my humble thanks for your time and appreciation." 

The audience continued applauding for some minutes, then one by one, here and there, people stood and gathered up their coats. The noise level rose as the crowd slowly filed out. 

An abstracted frown on his face, Shaman watched them leave. He barely noticed the arrival of a man in a well-cut blue suit. Of medium height, with dark hair well streaked with grey and an intelligent face, the man leaned toward the magician, his dark brown eyes worried. "Blair, what is it? Why did you kill the lights?" 

"I.don't know. Not for sure." Frustrated, the younger man tore off the ribbon holding back his hair. The long, dark locks fell around his face and shoulders, partially obscuring the troubled blue eyes. "I.felt.something, Vince. I don't know what it was, but it was wrong. Very wrong." 

"Wrong, huh?" Giving a sigh, Vince ran a hand over his hair and looked around. "So how are we going to explain this one, kid?" 

Blair glanced at his manager and best friend. "You'll think of something, Vince." He gave a crooked smile. "You always do." 

Snorting to himself, Vince Deal watched the illusionist walk off the stage. 

<<<>>>

"Ellison!" 

The bellow penetrated far beyond the noisy bullpen. In the busy corridor outside Major Crime, a tall, well-built man in his late thirties stopped and shook his head. "Shit, now what did I do? He just got here!" 

The slender, dark-haired man beside him laughed and patted one broad shoulder. "Better go see what our lord and master wants, Jim. He sounds hungry." 

"Thanks, Rafe. Where's a pineapple danish when you need it?" Jim muttered, shouldering his way past the uniformed officers and other detectives milling about the Major Crime bullpen. Coming up to the glass door, he knocked once and stuck his head in. "You wanted me, sir?" 

"Come in, come in." An unlit cigar in one hand, Captain Simon Banks waved his senior detective and friend into the office. Rolling the cigar between his fingers, the big African-American police captain studied the other man. 

Jim Ellison, a former highly decorated Army Ranger captain, had resigned his commission after a covert operation had gone badly astray. Banks was never able to find out more as the other man refused to discuss the incident. Tall and muscular, Ellison had a classically handsome face, with an aristocratic nose and cornflower blue eyes. He continued to wear his soft brown hair in a crewcut even though he was no longer in the military. His physical appearance, combined with his no-nonsense attitude, piercing gaze and commanding presence, ensured he always got noticed. Ellison had a reputation for being a hard ass, and it wasn't only his fellow police officers who jumped when he barked. 

All that aside, Simon Banks knew him to be a hard working, dedicated cop and a loyal friend. The captain was also the only person who knew how special Ellison truly was. 

Simon waved the detective into a seat in front of his desk, asking, "Coffee?" 

"No thanks, Simon." Sitting down, Ellison waited for his boss to come to the point. 

Banks took a long gulp of his coffee before putting the big mug down with a sigh. Looking Ellison in the eye, he stated, "A young woman was found murdered this morning; the newspapers are going to have a field day with this one. I want you to take lead on the case." 

"What's so special about it?" 

"Number one: She was found about an hour ago, in a magician's trick cabinet. There were seven swords driven into the box from all angles.you can imagine how she died." Ignoring the look of surprise on the usually stoic face, Banks went on, "Number two: The young lady in question was Cynthia Reynolds, a third year student at Rainier University. Her paternal uncle just happens to be the governor of Idaho." 

Ellison grimaced. "Oh, shit." 

"You said it. Political connotations aside, the manner of her death is just plain bizarre. Brown is over at the Westcott Theater now, and he says the box was in a locked storage room. The guy who found the body had to unlock the door to find it." 

"How the hell is that possible? Was the lock picked?" 

"I don't know. But that's another reason I need you on this one. We're going to need your special skills to solve this one, Jim." 

Wincing, Ellison nodded; he knew what Banks was referring to so obliquely. 

Ever since he could remember, Jim could do things other people could not. He could see fantastically long distances; he could also zoom in his sight and see things ordinary people couldn't see without a microscope. His hearing was so exquisite, he heard things clearly from blocks away; when focused, he could hear a person's heart beat. He could smell odors that others didn't even notice. For that reason, he tended to avoid large crowds. While he could usually control his hearing so that the noise wouldn't overwhelm him, he seemed to have less control over his sense of smell and would quickly become nauseated by the almost unnoticeable aromas of multitudes of perfumes, deodorants and cologne, not to mention the natural bodily odors of each person. Touch and taste were also overly developed and had to be carefully and constantly monitored so they wouldn't overtake him. If he focused too hard on one sense, he slipped into what was almost a fugue state; it then took another person to jolt him back into awareness. 

Ellison shifted on the chair uncomfortably. "Captain, I really don't think it's going to be necessary to use..." 

"Jim, I know you prefer to pretend your hyperactive senses don't exist," Banks said firmly, "but they have helped solve cases in the past, and I believe they'll be needed on this one." He gave a small smile. "Just watch how closely you focus in on something." 

Banks remembered the first time he'd caught Ellison in one of his fugue states. Almost panicked by the time he had been able to get the detective to respond, the captain had demanded a complete explanation. Since that time, Simon had never betrayed Jim's confidence, but he did insist on using the enhanced abilities to help solve cases. 

Glumly, Ellison indicated he understood. 

"Fine. Let's head on over to the theater." Rising to his feet, Banks waved his detective out ahead of him. Snagging his coat, he waited as Ellison retrieved his jacket from the back of his desk chair. As usual, it was cool and raining. 

The two men headed out the double doors and over to the elevator. Pushing the down button, Simon adjusted his coat as he commented, "You want to know the weirdest thing about all of this, Jim?" 

"There's something weirder than a girl being stabbed to death in a magician's trick sword cabinet?" Ellison questioned sarcastically. 

"Oh, yeah." Banks waited until they had gotten on the elevator before he continued, "It seems the Reynolds girl was at the magician's performance last night. She was the volunteer for the sword box trick, only the lights went out and the show had to be canceled. The magician never got around to doing the trick." 

"So someone went ahead and finished it." 

"It appears that way, doesn't it." 

<<<>>>

Jim Ellison gazed at the venerable old theater as Banks pulled up outside. On each side of the massive marquee, in huge black letters, was one word: Shaman. Smaller lettering listed the show dates and times. Standing on the sidewalk, Simon peered up. "You ever hear of this guy, Jim?" 

"I've heard of him," answered Ellison. He glanced around at the numerous police cars and forensic vans parked along the street. "Don't think I've ever seen any photos or film of him, though. I've only read print ads." He looked back at the stately theater. "Haven't been to a show, either; I probably couldn't afford it even if I wanted to." 

"You and me, both," agreed Banks, leading the way into the building. Once inside the ornate lobby, he grabbed the nearest uniformed officer and demanded a full update. 

For his part, Ellison found his attention captured by the large poster of the magician, dressed in his performance attire, hanging on a gilded wall. He suddenly felt lightheaded, almost dizzy, as he slowly walked over to it, staring at the figure it showcased. Even though it was only a flat portrait, the dark eyes seemed to reach into his soul. 

Jim shook his head, trying to dispel that fanciful notion. 

Banks had finished debriefing the officer, but had one more question for him. "Do you know where Detective Brown is?" The captain gave a quick look around, then shouted, "Hey, Jim, don't wander off!" 

His usual outward poise intact, Ellison rejoined his superior. Butterflies fluttered madly in his stomach. 

"He's still back in the storage room, sir." The young officer responded to Banks' earlier question and waved toward the wooden doors leading into the auditorium. "Do you want me to show the way?" 

"Might be a good idea, son," grunted Banks. "As huge as this place is, it could take years to find it on my own." 

After about five minutes of navigation through various doors and corridors, the patrolman turned left down a narrow hall. At the far end, a large group of uniformed police and plain-clothed forensic investigators bustled in and out of a large room. Off to one side stood an older man dressed in casual, although expensive, clothes. His dark eyes immediately lit on the new arrivals; Ellison felt the penetrating gaze on his back as he and Banks passed the man and went into the storage room. 

It was instantly obvious, although the girl's body had been removed, where the murder had taken place. A large, clear cabinet stood in a corner of the room, its inside walls dripping with blood. A huge pool of the fluid lay congealing on its floor. 

"Brown!" called Banks, spying his detective standing off to one side, speaking with a forensic technician. 

Upon hearing his name, the tall, burly African-American man looked up. Seeing the two men, he walked over to join them. 

"Well, what have we got?" prompted Banks, praying for a good answer and a quick solution to this political nightmare. Realistically, however, he was fatalistically resigned to a long, difficult case. 

"Nothing so far, sir," replied Brown gloomily, fulfilling his boss' worst expectations. 

"According to Mr. Deal out there," Brown pointed a thumb at the civilian in the hallway, "this room was locked tight when he and Mr. Sandburg left at one o'clock this morning. Mr. Sandburg locked the door, and Mr. Deal checked it; that's routine because there's a lot of expensive equipment in here. Both men went back to their hotel together, the Cascade Renaissance. Halfway there, Mr. Deal remembered he'd left his personal organizer on a table in here, but decided to wait until this morning to come back for it. He returned to the theater at eight, let himself into the building with the key the manager had previously given him and came down to the storage room. He didn't notice anything amiss or different on his way down here and the door appeared undisturbed. It wasn't until he had unlocked the door and turned on the light over on the far wall, that he realized what had happened. He left the room and called 911 on his cell phone. The rest you know." 

"The lock hasn't been picked or messed with?" queried Banks. 

"Not according to Serena. If you'll take a look, you'll see that it's a brand new lock. That's a condition of Mr. Sandburg's; wherever they go, he wants a new lock placed on the storage room door to protect the equipment. There's not a mark on it." 

Exchanging a look with Banks, Ellison headed over to the door. Bending down, he took a quick look at the lock panel and mechanism. Even with his enhanced sight, he could detect no scratches or flaws which would indicate someone had tampered with it. Shaking his head, he moved back into the room, and went over to scrutinize the murder cabinet. 

Simon Banks accepted the bad news with a frown. "Well, if the lock hasn't been forced, it must've been someone with a key. Who has a key to that door?" 

"Only two people: Mr. Deal and Mr. Sandburg," responded Brown. 

"Wait a minute," interjected Ellison, holding up a hand. "Just who the hell is this Mr. Sandburg?" 

"That's Shaman, the magician who's playing here. His real name is Blair Sandburg." 

"Where exactly is this Shaman right now?" demanded the police captain. 

"He's on his way down here; I've sent a cruiser for him." 

"Good move," acknowledged Banks. He took a look around the crime scene and sighed. "You can head on back to headquarters, Henry. Jim's going to be taking lead on this one." 

"Thank you, Lord," intoned Brown sincerely. He shot a quick glance at the captain and amended his statement. "I mean, thanks, Captain. I've already got enough on my desk without having to add this mess." He then looked at his colleague and grinned. "More power to you, Ellison. I think you're going to need all your famous luck to solve this one." 

"Thank you for that encouraging assessment," grumbled Ellison. "On your way out, have Deal sent in, will you?" 

Laughing at the brusque request, Brown left. 

Before Ellison could look too closely at the crime scene, Vince Deal was shown into the room. 

"You wanted to see me, gentlemen?" Deal's voice was soft and cultured. 

Eyeing him intently, Jim said, "Yes, thank you, Mr. Deal. This is Captain Banks of Major Crime; I'm Detective Ellison. I'm going to be the lead investigator on this matter. Do you mind answering a few questions?" 

"No, not at all. I'll be glad to do anything to help you find whoever committed this atrocity. Such a lovely young woman, and to have her life cut so brutally short." Deal trailed off, shaking his silvered head. 

"Had you met the young lady?" asked Banks. 

"No, I had never seen her until last night when she came onstage to be the volunteer for the sword box. When the trick was stopped, Blair had her escorted back offstage. I never spoke with her." 

"Why was the trick halted, Mr. Deal? We heard there was some sort of electrical problems," put in Ellison. 

"Welll." Deal drew out the word, then, looking somewhat sheepish, explained, "That's what we told the public. In actuality, I had pulled the main circuit breaker back stage." 

"Pulled the circuit breaker?" exclaimed Banks. Both cops looked astonished. "Now why on earth would you do that?" 

"Because Blair had signaled me to do so." Deal didn't appear too worried at the impression he might give at this confession. "Long ago, we had worked out a set of verbal signals in case something would ever go wrong with one of the illusions. He gave me a cue last night.'in the dark'. That means cut the power. I always watch the shows from the back of the stage; it was easy enough for me to do it." 

"Did you ask Mr. Sandburg why he decided to end the performance prematurely?" Ellison questioned. 

"I did. All he said was, something had gone wrong with the box. Later, after everyone else had left, he and I went over the cabinet, but could find nothing to explain the failure. I was going to take a second look this morning when I came for my organizer." 

Looking over at Ellison, Banks saw the minute shrug the other cop gave. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Deal," he said. "If we need anything else, we'll get in touch. An officer will drive you back to your hotel." 

"Thank you, Captain, Detective." Giving an urbane nod to each man, Deal turned and left the room. 

As soon as he was out of ear shot, Banks demanded, "Well?" 

"Damn it, Simon; I'm not a lie detector!" 

Long used to Ellison's grousing, Banks just brushed past the complaint and fixed the other man with a gimlet eye. 

Making a face at him, Ellison conceded. "The man's cool, almost too cool. He's definitely hiding something; whether it has anything to do with this is anyone's guess. Deal could just be trying to downplay the bad publicity before it ricochets onto his client." 

Just then, an uniformed officer stuck his head in the door and announced, "Captain Banks? That magician fellow is here." 

"Send him in," ordered Banks. Turning to Ellison, he muttered, "Maybe we'll get something better out of him." 

"I wouldn't count on that, sir," Ellison answered vaguely. The mere mention of the magician had caused the butterflies in his stomach to take flight. 

At a slight noise, both men looked toward the door. 

The young man coming through the storage room door bore only a minimal resemblance to the polished, sophisticated image he presented to his public. His long, curly, chestnut hair was down, flowing freely about his shoulders, and he was dressed in a comfortable black plaid flannel shirt, wellworn jeans and sturdy hiking boots. A battered black leather jacket was slung over one arm, and a pair of sunglasses was perched on the up-tilted nose. He removed them as he spotted Banks. 

"Hey, are you the guy I'm supposed to see?" The magician's voice was cheerful, the azure eyes sparkling. "Sorry to take so long but, man, I'm just so not an early morning person!" 

His nerves fluttering, feeling as though he were falling, Ellison took a quick inventory of the younger man. Though Sandburg was shorter than himself by several inches, he was by no means less masculine in appearance. His shoulders were broad, and the faded jeans stretched tightly over a firm backside and an intriguing bulge in front. Sandburg's face, though definitely beautiful, was obviously male, with a square chin. 

About that time, the magician shifted his gaze from the police captain and saw his violated sword cabinet. The blood in his face instantaneously fled, and he staggered. Reflexively, Ellison leaped forward and threw an arm around the wide shoulders, steadying him. 

"Jesus!" Voice breaking on the word, Sandburg had to clear his throat before he could speak again. Unconsciously leaning into the strong form holding him, he stuttered, "W-What the hell h-happened?" 

The illusionist's horrified reaction was too spontaneous to be anything other than genuine. Banks sighed and introduced himself and Ellison. Seeing that the younger man was now turning green, the police captain offered, "Look, maybe we can discuss this somewhere else." 

"S-Sure." Swallowing convulsively, Sandburg seemed to come back to himself, and found he was all but draped across the man standing next to him. His shock at that realization held him immobile for several long minutes, then he caught his mental breath. Intending to thank the detective, he glanced up into clear blue eyes and froze again. 

Audibly swallowing, Blair managed to squeeze out, "Thanks, man," from a dry throat as he almost physically forced himself to move away from the oddly comforting body. 

Ellison felt curiously bereft as the other man stepped away, following Banks from the room. 

Once out in the now all but deserted hallway, Banks acknowledged the lone officer standing guard at the head of the corridor. Then, seeing the performer had recovered a little of his color, he proceeded to tell Sandburg just what had occurred inside his prop. When he had finished, Sandburg had gone pale again, but didn't seem as likely to fall over. 

"Oh, my god," murmured the illusionist, running a hand through his thick hair. "Who could have wanted to do such a thing? She was so young." His voice fell until it was barely a whisper. "So full of Life's spirit." 

Ellison heard the odd statement and frowned. 

"Had you met Ms. Reynolds before last evening?" Simon felt he knew the answer, but he had to ask, regardless. 

"No." Sandburg shook his head. Turning away, he paced a few steps up the hall and stopped. "Such a waste." 

Mordantly wondering if the magician had meant the young girl's life or the loss of his expensive prop box, Banks kept that thought to himself. He did decide to indulge his curiosity, however. "Mr. Deal told us that you, yourself, engineered the power failure that halted the show last night. Is that true?" 

For one, brief panic-stricken moment, Blair wondered just what Vince had told the police, then he caught himself. He sighed, but didn't turn around. "Yes, I did." 

"Why did you stop the illusion?" 

"Because the light didn't turn green." 

"Huh?" Banks looked at Ellison, who shook his head blankly. 

"The indicator light off stage didn't turn green." Sandburg turned back around. "There's a set of lights off stage which gets wired to the sword cabinet. They read green if the bottom of the box has dropped, depositing the volunteer onto a soft pad under the stage. The lights didn't go green; ergo, the bottom didn't drop. So I signaled Vince to cut the power to make everyone think the electricity had gone out." 

"Do all magicians have these fail safes?" inquired Ellison, giving the younger man a close look. "Or are you unique in this way?" 

"I prefer to be called an illusionist." Sandburg emphasized the last word. 

"What's the difference?" asked Banks. *Of all the things for the kid to get picky about.* 

"Semantics, probably. Whenever I hear the word `magician', I get flashes of backyard birthday parties full of screaming children." 

An awkward silence fell. 

"As for other illusionists," Sandburg shrugged, then pushed a handful of curls behind his left ear, revealing a pair of silver hoops threaded through the ear lobe. "some have fail safes, some don't." He brought his gaze over to Ellison, who immediately felt the phantom sensation of free falling once more. "I don't like making mistakes. If I mess up with the volunteer, there's a good chance an innocent person will get hurt. No matter what anyone else in this profession will tell you, mistakes do happen-sometimes terrible ones. I refuse to have that on my karma." 

"Or to have a lawsuit for negligence filed against you." Ellison strove for cynical, but couldn't quite reach it. 

"Oh, I don't worry about that." Sandburg gave a fey smile. "My fans would never sue me." 

Clearing his throat, Banks broke another strained silence. 

"I think that's all for now, Mr. Sandburg," he said crisply. "Where can we reach you if we need to question you further?" 

"At my hotel or here. I have four more shows to give." 

Ellison was surprised. "You're going to go on with your performances?" 

"Each one of those shows are sold out; that's over one thousand people per performance. Would you have me disappoint them? Or do you believe it would be best to just refund their money?" Sandburg shook his head firmly. "I don't think that way, Detective Ellison. I won't be doing any more audience participation pieces while I'm here in Cascade, but I'm going to honor my contract with the theater." 

Ellison looked away, feeling slightly ashamed of himself. The unsettled feeling that had gripped him from the moment he'd seen the magician's poster returned full force and he abruptly felt claustrophobic. 

"We'll be in touch, then." Giving the entertainer a terse nod, Ellison spun on his heel and rapidly strode away. 

Even though he was taller than Ellison, with longer legs, Banks didn't catch up with the detective until he was exiting the building. 

"What do you think?" Banks asked, ignoring the cop's sudden departure. He was used to the other man's short fuse when dealing with the world at large. "Is our little magician on the up and up? Excuse me," he drawled sarcastically, "I mean, our illusionist." 

"I don't know," Ellison answered shortly. "He could be." 

"What the hell do you mean, you don't know?" demanded Banks. Stopping in his tracks, he grabbed a muscular forearm and pulled Ellison around. "You just spent twenty minutes in his company. Hell, you were all but hugging him in the beginning! Wasn't your `radar' up and running?" 

"Yes, but." Jim looked into his friend's irritated face and gave a helpless shrug. "I tried scanning him, Simon. I really did." 

"So?" 

"So I got nothing." 

Banks blinked at that. "How could you get nothing? He's innocent, you mean?" 

"No, I mean that I was unable to read anything off him." Jaw muscle twitching, Ellison was confused and angry with himself. "It was as if he wasn't even there, Simon. I could see him; I could hear him; damn it to hell, I could smell him!" Jim stopped, momentarily distracted by the memory of the exotic, spicy aroma that had surrounded the illusionist. Flushing slightly, he hurried on before his captain noticed his preoccupation. "But whenever I attempted to probe deeper, to `see' beneath the surface, I got nothing." 

"Has this ever happened before?" Banks was worried. *If Jim's senses are going to fritz out on him, maybe I'd better do us all a favor and remove him from this case.* 

"No, never. Only with Sandburg." Ellison shifted his gaze to over Banks' shoulder, staring at the theater they had just left. "Only with him." 

Shoving down the sudden sense of cold foreboding, Simon just nodded and then steered his bewildered detective over toward the car. 

<<<>>>

Once back at the police station, both men went their separate ways. Banks returned to his office and overflowing inbox, and Ellison retrieved his Expedition so he could go interview the slain woman's friends. Some four hours later, Banks sighed and looked up from the papers littering his desk. He glanced out into the bullpen in time to see Ellison hang up his phone with a resigned expression on his face. 

Welcoming the chance to stretch his legs, Simon stood up and sauntered into the bullpen, stopping beside Ellison. "Dare I ask how the Reynolds case is progressing, Detective?" 

Ellison heard the cynical tone in the deep voice and echoed it. "Oh, you can ask, Captain, but I don't think you're going to like the answer." 

Dropping one hip onto the edge of the over-crowded, but tidy, desk, Banks sighed morosely. "I suppose it was too much to hope that she had an obsessed, stalker boyfriend who answered the door, blood dripping from his hands." 

"Get real, Simon." Ellison let out a short, barking laugh. "The young lady was a saint-or as close as one gets these days. She shared a small house over in the university district with two other girls. According to them, Cynthia rarely dated; she was too intent on her schoolwork as she was working on a dual major. When she did date, it was always the same guy, some kid by the name of Andrew Laughton." 

"What does young Mr. Laughton have to say for himself?" 

"Not much. According to his mother, City Councilwoman Jessica Laughton." Jim let out a chuckle at the sudden horrified look on the dark face. ".her son, Andrew, has been in DC since the middle of February. He's a spring intern in Senator Wymore's office." 

"Whew!" Banks ran a hand over his face. "That's all we would need, more political involvement." He shot his detective a knowing look. "I take it you verified the Councilwoman's story?" 

"Yeah." Jim pushed away from his desk and leaned his chair backwards on its rear two legs. "After talking with Mrs. Laughton, I really didn't see the need, but.routine is routine. Andrew Laughton arrived in DC on February seventeenth and hasn't left town since." 

"What did the roommates have to say?" 

"You mean, once I could get them to stop weeping and wailing all over the place?" Ellison grimaced. He hated emotional scenes, especially crying women. Having grown up in an all-male, strictly disciplined and emphatically unemotional household, he had never learned how to deal with overt displays. At best, they left him uneasy; at worst, he wanted to run away. 

"You survived it." Banks was unsympathetic. "What did you find out?" 

"Nothing that gets us anywhere. All three of them had tickets to see this Shaman last night; all three left the theater together when the show was canceled. According to the roommates, Cynthia was disappointed she hadn't been able to finish the sword box trick, but was looking forward to volunteering again when Shaman did his make-up show. The girls state they had talked for a bit after they had returned home, but that everyone was in bed by midnight. Cynthia's room is at the back of the house. Neither of the roommates heard anything unusual last night, in the house or outside. No one came to the door during the night; the phone didn't ring. In fact, until the cruiser turned up this morning, the girls had no idea anything was wrong. They thought Cynthia was sleeping late; she usually did on Saturday mornings. According to the young ladies, the only odd thing that happened last night was that one of them had a nightmare." 

"Nightmare?" 

"Well, she didn't call it a nightmare; that's my term," admitted Ellison. "Her bedroom is the one next to Cynthia's; she swore the temperature dropped to below zero in the house during the night. There was a ghost in the house; an evil one, she said." 

Banks rolled his eyes. "Well, that's certainly helpful." 

"There was no sign of forced entry at the house; windows were all shut tight and locked securely. The front-and only-door had two deadbolts and a chain on it. None of them showed any indication of tampering." 

"Nothing out of the ordinary in the girl's room?" Banks knew Ellison was too good a detective to have overlooked any possible leads, but it was his job to question everything. 

Ellison knew that, also. Unperturbed, he just shook his head. "Nothing seemed out of place to the roommates. All her clothes were either hung up or in the laundry basket. The bed was turned back and the sheets were rumpled as though somebody had lain on them. It's as though she just decided to get out of bed in the middle of the night, walk out and get murdered." He came back upright in his chair and looked at his captain curiously. "Do we have a time of death, yet? I've been too busy to check." 

"Yeah, Dan called up while you were gone." Simon gave an approving nod. Cascade's Native American coroner was cheerful, brisk and efficient; he was also politically savvy enough to have known that this particular murder victim would have taken precedent over any other corpse in his morgue. "He places TOD between midnight and four this morning; cause of death was pretty apparent-blood loss from multiple stab wounds." 

"Damn," muttered Ellison, having hoped for something out of the ordinary which would have at least given him a direction to pursue. 

"There may be something else. Dan wasn't positive." 

Jim looked up, one eyebrow lifted. It wasn't like Dan Wolf to be so equivocal. "What do you mean? What did Dan find?" 

"It's more like what he didn't find, according to Dan," replied Simon. "The body didn't have any ligature marks, no bumps, bruises or lacerations." 

"She didn't fight leaving the house or being put in the box," concluded Ellison. "Which means she had to have known her killer and wasn't frightened about being placed in the box." 

"Exactly what I was thinking," Banks confirmed. "Also, according to our favorite coroner, the killer knew what he was doing." 

"How so?" 

"That girl was stabbed with seven swords; none of them pierced a vital organ or a main artery. Cynthia just bled to death.slowly." 

Ellison frowned deeply. "That would have been agonizing. I can't believe there aren't any defensive marks on her hands or body to indicate she tried to get herself out of that damn box." 

"I'm with you," agreed Banks. "So is Dan; that's why he mentioned the lack of other injuries. I mean, do you know of anyone who would meekly stand there and let someone stab them seven times without even attempting to get away?" 

The two men stared at each other for a long moment, then, with a grunt of frustration, Ellison climbed to his feet. 

"Where are you off to now?" queried Banks. 

"I'm going back over to the theater. Brown reports that Sandburg had ten assistants on stage with him last night and that they rehearse every afternoon. I'm hoping that one of them saw or heard something; I particularly want to talk with the guy who escorted the Reynolds girl on and off the stage." 

With a grunt of his own, Banks got off the edge of Ellison's desk. "Good hunting." 

"See you later, Simon." 

Mind already on the forthcoming interviews, Ellison absently grabbed his lightweight jacket and headed out. 

<<<>>>

Having knocked on one of the theater's glass doors and been let in, Ellison asked to be taken to the manager of the classic venue. Reeking of too much expensive cologne, Peter Danvers spent a great deal of time lamenting that the Westcott's reputation was now ruined beyond repair, and bitterly complaining about the police presence. In fact, the only time the overweight man ceased his fretful griping was after Ellison asked about the theater's contract with Blair Sandburg. A glint in his light brown eyes, Danvers confirmed the details of the contract, including that, yes, only Mr. Sandburg and his manager, Mr. Deal, held keys to the storage room. 

"Such an incredible illusionist," enthused Danvers. "Plus, he's a truly wonderful, beautiful person. Do you know, there has never been a hint of impropriety or bad behavior directed toward him? In fact, the only complaint I've ever heard concerning that lovely boy was from that old trout, Mrs. Gallagher." 

"What complaint was that, Mr. Danvers?" asked Ellison, biting the inside of his cheek to avoid letting his disgust creep into his voice. 

"Oh, the lady came to me in a huff after the performance was canceled with a concern about his `person'." 

Jim gave him a blank stare. "What.she didn't like the smell of his cologne or something?" When Jim had held him, Sandburg hadn't been wearing any cologne, but maybe he did during a show. 

"Oh, no, my dear Detective Ellison!" The portly manager laughed merrily. "Mrs. Gallagher was sitting in the fifth row, the row Mr. Sandburg used during one of his illusions. As he exited the row to return to the stage, he had to pass directly in front of her. The old girl was absolutely adamant that the poor man was `freezing'. She wasn't actually angry at Mr. Sandburg; she was furious at me for keeping the temperature on the stage so low; she expressed concern that Mr. Sandburg was going to catch pneumonia." 

Danvers gave Ellison a coy glance, then continued, "You'll notice she wasn't worried about those poor boys and girls running around up there in practically nothing. Of course, I can't say I blame her; the dear boy just seems to ooze a need for someone to look after him." 

Ellison quickly took his leave at that time. For some reason, the lecherous look in those porcine eyes made him want to smash in Danvers' oily face and that rattled the big detective to his core. It wasn't the knowledge that he was attracted to the young illusionist that shook Ellison; that part of himself was rarely indulged, but it was accepted. It was the almost overwhelming feeling of possessiveness, the primal urge he felt to protect Blair Sandburg that confounded and dismayed him. After all, he had barely met the man and, as unlikely as it seemed at this point, Sandburg was a suspect in an ongoing murder investigation. 

As he stalked down an aisle toward the stage, Ellison gave himself a severe dressing down, sternly reminding himself that he was too old to let his hormones do his thinking for him. *Hell, you don't know if Sandburg would even be open to the idea*, Jim told himself sharply. *So just keep your mind on your job, Jimmy boy, and out of Sandburg's pants.* Unfortunately, that thought just brought the illusionist's shapely derriere and full crotch into searing focus. 

Hoping fervently that the people onstage would take the slight flush on his face to be exertion-caused, Ellison climbed the stairs and approached the small knot of men and women. 

A well-muscled blond man saw him first and moved to intercept. "No stories here, mate." The thick Australian accent was firm. "So you can just trundle yourself back on out of here." 

Coming to a halt, Ellison held up his badge and announced loudly, "Jim Ellison, Cascade PD. I need to ask all of you some questions." 

"Oh, a copper, eh." Still not regarding him with any degree of friendliness, the Australian at least stood aside. Reluctantly, the cop noticed, but he did let Ellison approach the group. 

"I was wondering if one of you would be coming around." This came from a tall, dark-skinned male off to Ellison's right. His voice held a slight West African accent. 

The four women didn't seem to resent Ellison's appearance in the slightest. Ignoring the subtle come-ons, he calmly asked for names and patiently wrote them down in his notebook. That done, he stood there and surveyed them for a few minutes, using the time to give his enhanced senses free rein in scanning each one. 

They were all much of a sameness, he noted. All were young, tall and well-built-the men heavily muscled, and the women buxom. The sort of person who came across well to an audience, he decided. There was an assortment of ethnicity; Sandburg evidently did not discriminate. All were dressed in sweats and the loose sort of clothing which allowed for free range of movement. 

"Well, cat got your tongue?" snapped a red-haired woman. The cool scrutiny from those ice blue eyes appeared to rattle her. 

"Chill out, Cassie," murmured the Australian. "The sooner we let The Man do his thing, the sooner we can get back to what we were doing." 

"Did I interrupt something?" Ellison inquired pleasantly. 

"We were just blocking out the new routine," answered a thin-faced Asian man. "Takes hours to get it right so we're not in the way of either Blair or the audience." 

"Well, hopefully, this won't take too long," commented Ellison, giving the entire group one more bland look before turning his attention to the West African male. "You're Tomas Chilombo, the one who escorted Ms. Reynolds on and off the stage?" 

"That's me." Tomas scowled and shrugged. "If I have to stand out from the crowd, I would rather it wouldn't be because I briefly interacted with a murder victim." 

The rest of the magician's assistants murmured their agreement. 

"It's perfectly understandable to feel that way," reassured the cop. "I only have two questions for you: Had you encountered Ms. Reynolds before the performance last night, and did you see her after the show was canceled?" 

"No to both." Chilombo shook his head definitely. "The first time I laid eyes on her was when she stood up and volunteered for the sword box illusion; then I took her back to her seat once the trick was stopped. Never saw her again, and I left the theater around midnight with the rest of the troop." 

Ellison gave an inward sigh; his senses indicated that the young man was telling the truth. Nonetheless, he decided to press a bit. 

"While you were escorting her back to her seat, you didn't chat her up a bit, maybe arrange to meet for a drink later?" he queried, carefully keeping the question non-confrontational. "There isn't anything incriminating about that; you're a nice enough looking guy and she was very pretty." 

Tomas flushed slightly, but shook his head again. "No, I didn't." 

The red-haired woman, Cassie Welles, gave a shrill giggle. "No, Tomas wouldn't have done that, would you, honey?" She sidled closer to Ellison and gave him a big-eyed, innocent look. "That gorgeous little thing wasn't his type-if you take my meaning." 

Jim rather thought she resembled a dim-witted sparrow looking at him like that. Disregarding the invitation written large in the hazel eyes, he pointedly kept his attention focused on the hapless Tomas. 

"Do you have someone who can verify where you were all of last night?" He made sure there was no judgment in his tone. 

Flushing bright red with humiliation, Cassie sulkily drew back to hushed snickers from the others. Chilombo couldn't quite hide his surprise at the lowkey reaction from the big cop. 

"Uh, yeah," stammered Tomas, then he caught himself. "My partner can vouch for me." He gave a nod toward the Australian. 

Ellison threw a glance over at the blond; he was nodding emphatically. 

"Well, that's two alibis with one stone," he announced. "How about the rest of you?" 

Ten minutes later, Ellison knew he could confidently discount the other assistants, even a pouting Cassie. Sighing, he pocketed his notebook and said, "Thanks for everything. I take it all of you will be staying in Cascade until the end of the performances?" 

Everyone nodded. 

"No reason not to," one of the women, Tanisha DeNovo, said. "I mean, what happened was dreadful and all, but for us, nothing has really changed. We still have shows we contracted to do. I'm sure Blair would let me go if I really wanted it, but I don't. He's a great boss, and the best illusionist I've ever worked with." 

"You've worked with Mr. Sandburg a long time, then?" 

Ellison ignored the voice in the back of his head which told him that this line of inquiry was not pertinent to his investigation, and that he should just leave. He argued back, insisting that knowing all he could about the magician could only help. The logical side of him immediately saw all the flaws in that piece of precarious logic; but for the first time ever, the cop had no trouble overruling his more rational side. This group seemed willing to talk about Sandburg; Ellison decided he was going to indulge his insatiable need to find out all he could about the illusionist. 

"I've been with him since he first started touring three years ago," Tanisha informed him. "We all have, except Cassie and Tran. It's been hard work, and the constant traveling is a big pain in the ass, but there's just something about Blair that makes it all worthwhile." 

"What do you mean, constant travel?" asked Jim. "Surely you get some down time between cities?" 

"The only down time we get is the time it takes us to get from one venue to the next, and the days off in between shows," replied Chilombo. "Blair told us that going in-he said he was going to be touring the world and that it meant constant travel. He told us he would understand if we got tired of it one day and wanted to leave. It is exhausting, but I wouldn't give up this opportunity to work with Blair for a million dollars." 

"Sounds as if he's a pretty exceptional guy." Privately, Ellison more than agreed with that statement. 

"He sure is," put in Ned Talbot, the Australian. "Sure, he's got his quirks, but which artist doesn't?" 

"Quirks?" queried Ellison, one eyebrow lifted. 

"Well, eccentricities, I guess." Ned blushed, then plowed on, "I mean, I really like the fellow and all, but you guys have to admit, he's sort of weird at times." He was appealing to his co-workers. 

Tomas came to his lover's aid. "Sure, buddy, we know." 

Ellison's curiosity was powerfully aroused. "What do you mean by eccentric? I noticed nothing unusual this morning." 

"Oh, he never acts out or anything," Tanisha rushed to inform him. "It's just that." She trailed off, then gave a shrug. "Blair loves his audiences and they adore him. He has them practically eating out his hands, but he won't interact with them or allow them to take any pictures of him. No video cameras, no digital cameras, no nothing. As far as I know, the only photo we have of him is the one in the lobby, and that's the same poster we've always had. Vince produced that one from somewhere. Even we aren't allowed to take any pictures of him for our personal use." 

"Maybe he's just camera shy," suggested Ellison. 

"I think he's just shy, period," stated Linda Wilson, a platinum blonde. "That explains why he won't let anyone touch him, or why he won't touch anyone himself. He doesn't even let Vince too close to him, and those two have been friends for forever, according to Blair." 

"He doesn't like to be touched?" Ellison was stunned, remembering all too clearly how the illusionist had leaned into him when the cop had put an arm around his shoulders. That behavior was at distinct odds with Wilson's assertion that he wouldn't even let his closest friend touch him, but the other assistants were nodding in agreement. Jim filed that anomaly away for the present and returned to the conversation. "That must make it difficult for his girlfriends." Jim held his breath. 

Cassie gave another snicker. "Oh, Blair doesn't have any girlfriends," she reported brightly. "I'd think he was like Tomas and Ned, except he doesn't have any boyfriends, either." 

The two men in question threw her a disgusted look, while the others just rolled their eyes and sighed. 

_Well, that's as clear as mud,_ Jim thought. Giving a mental shrug, he stated, "Well, I'd better let you get back to your rehearsals. It's getting late and Mr. Sandburg is probably due any minute." 

"Oh, Blair doesn't rehearse with us," Linda said blithely. "In fact, I don't think I've ever seen him rehearse. He's just a natural born illusionist." 

"Hell." Ellison stared at her. "I thought everyone had to rehearse, even Houdini!" 

"Blair doesn't." Chilombo was definite. "We don't know how he does it, but he does." 

"Maybe he just has a lot of faith in his props," offered the cop. "He knows they're going to work and he doesn't see the need to test them." 

"He built all the props himself, with some help from Vince; so, yeah, I guess you can say he trusts them," replied Linda. "He sure is protective of them, too; the only people allowed to touch them are him and Vince. They're the ones to pack and unpack them; they bring them up to backstage before each show. Sure, the guys get to twirl and move them around, but only during a performance. When the cabinets aren't in use, they're totally off limits to everyone but Blair and Vince." 

"Hmm. That could be why Sandburg was so surprised when the sword box trick failed last night." Ellison was thinking aloud. He saw the curious looks and explained, "That's why the performance was canceled last night. Mr. Sandburg said the warning lights, which indicate the bottom of the sword box has dropped properly, didn't light up. He gave Mr. Deal a code phrase and had him pull the main electric breaker to simulate a power failure." 

"So that's what happened!" exclaimed Talbot. "No wonder the poor electricians couldn't find anything wrong with the bloody system." 

Linda was frowning. Ellison noticed and asked, "What is it?" 

"Oh, it's probably nothing." Linda was silent for a few moments, then shrugged. "It's just that, all of us are lined up at each side of the stage during the sword box illusion; the men on one side, us women on the other. We face in toward center stage and each group can see backstage over the heads of the others. I've been with Blair since the beginning; I've never noticed any lights changing colors. I've never noticed any lights of any sort, ever. Have any of you?" 

They were all frowning now. 

"Come to think of it," Tomas said slowly, "no, we haven't. That's odd, isn't it?" 

Yes, very, Ellison agreed silently. If it wasn't because the warning light indicated a malfunction, just why did Sandburg cancel the trick? 

<<<>>>

Striding down the hallway toward the deadly storage room, Ellison called a greeting to the bored looking uniformed officer sitting in a chair beside the door. He was there on guard because the forensic team had not yet been able to transfer the sword cabinet to the crime lab. The bloody swords, however, had gone back with the technicians. 

"Hey, Ricardo. Anything happening?" 

"Not so far, Detective," answered the Hispanic officer. "That Deal fellow came by, but he only had me grab his organizer; he'd forgotten it again this morning." Both cops exchanged an knowing look. "The magician was also here about an hour ago. He asked me if I would go in and retrieve a small box for him. I did; there was nothing special in the box that I could see. Neither one even asked if they could enter the room; no evidence was disturbed." Ricardo shrugged. 

"I'm going to give that damn sword box a thorough going-over," Ellison informed him. "Ignore any noises you might hear." At those words, he ducked under the yellow crime tape blocking the door. Ricardo's reply was cut off as Jim shut the door behind himself. 

Once inside the room, Jim stood there and contemplated the sword box in brooding silence. He didn't care for the direction his suspicious mind was taking him; it almost felt like disloyalty to Sandburg. _Don't be fucking ridiculous!_ he scolded himself furiously. *You don't even know the guy. Just because he appeared horrified, it doesn't mean he might not be involved. Maybe he's a damn good actor.* 

Thus mentally fortified, Ellison approached the desecrated cabinet. Having stopped in a men's bathroom on his way to the storage room, the cop brought out the huge bundle of hand towels he had ripped off. Opening the box door, he grimaced and squatted down, wiping at the thick layer of congealed blood on the floor. It took several minutes, but he finally had most of the blood pushed against the sides of the box. Feeling massively deflated, although his rational mind was going `aha!', Ellison sank back on his heels and scowled blackly. 

His enhanced sight could find no opening in the bottom of the box. 

A wild thought flittered across his mind. *How does he get the person out of the box before the swords go in if the bottom doesn't drop?* Ellison quickly scanned the sides of the cabinet, looking for the minute lines which would indicate a concealed door. There were none. As far as Ellison could tell, the box was made of solid, clear plastic with no secret way out. 

So.Sandburg had lied. There was no way the indicator light could have failed if there wasn't a bottom to be dropped. Was Deal aware that the cabinet was a fake? He had to be; according to the assistants, Sandburg and Deal had designed all the prop boxes. On a sudden whim, Ellison swiftly examined the magician's other gaudy cabinets. None of the prop boxes contained any hidden doors or escape routes. 

A thoughtful frown pulling at his brows, the cop pondered the meaning of his discoveries. He resolutely squashed the irrelevant question of how Sandburg had performed his illusions in cabinets without exits; the ins and outs of a magician's tricks were not pertinent to the investigation. What _was_ pertinent was that Sandburg and Deal had lied about why the previous night's performance had been canceled. It didn't necessarily indicate that one or both of them were involved in the murder, but it did raise a red flag. 

Ellison also ignored his personal feelings of betrayal. *For god's sake, you barely know the guy! Besides, he rationalized, this doesn't have to mean anything illegal. Maybe Sandburg has a perfectly logical explanation; maybe the true reason the illusion failed would give away long-held trade secrets.* Stoic mask hiding his inner turmoil, Ellison let himself out of the storage room. Deep in thought, he missed Ricardo's farewell. The uniform just shrugged and settled back down with his book. He had worked with the big detective numerous times and was well acquainted with the other man's poor social skills. Yawning, Ricardo glanced at his watch; only about another fifteen, twenty minutes until the forensic van would get there for the cabinet. 

<<<>>>

As Blair closed the door of his hotel suite, Deal came out of the kitchenette. 

"Where did you.?" The manager trailed off, noting the small box in the younger man's hands. "So you went back to the theater. Mind if I ask why? I know you didn't go for that box; there's nothing in it but spare bulbs for the cabinet lights." 

"I needed an excuse," Sandburg shrugged. "This seemed as good as anything else." 

Carelessly tossing the box onto a table, Sandburg dropped into a large over-stuffed chair and rubbed both hands over his face. "He's here, Vince. Here in Cascade, and he's the one responsible for that poor child." 

Deal stiffened and unconsciously cast a haunted, guilty look over his shoulder. His voice lowered, he said, "I'm not going to ask you if you're sure about this. But I do want to know why you were unsure last night, and absolutely certain this afternoon." 

"I went back to the storage room," answered Blair obliquely. "This morning, when I was there with the cops, I was shut down because I was still pretty wiped out and I didn't want to mess with controlling myself. I went in wide open this time." 

"And?" prompted the older man, seating himself on the soft sofa across from the illusionist. 

Sandburg leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "His evil and malice fairly permeates the whole damn corridor, let alone the storage room." He held his manager's eyes. "Eli Stoddard is here in Cascade, Vince. He killed that girl just to taunt me." 

Deal didn't question that outrageous statement. He couldn't; after all, that was the reason Blair was here, why he had traveled the world non-stop these past three years. Forcibly reminded once more of just what the innocentappearing young man was capable of, and why, Deal abruptly shifted himself backward, putting more space between himself and his client. Then he caught himself and froze, swearing volubly. 

Ending his self-castigation, he threw an apologetic look at the man regarding him with a wry, resigned expression. "Sorry, kid; don't know what came over me. I didn't mean." 

"It's all right, man," soothed Blair, expert by this time at hiding the hurt Deal's withdrawals always caused. "How many times do I have to tell you? It's not your fault; you're only human." 

"Yeah, yeah," mumbled Deal, who clearly had not forgiven himself. Running a hand over his face, he inquired, "Any ideas on how we're going to handle the cops? I'm not ignoring what you just said, but the cops are not going to just go away. It might've been my overactive imagination, but that big one-Detective Ellison-gave me the impression that he knew I was feeding him a load of bullshit about why the show was canceled. We're going to have to be very careful around him, kid." 

Suddenly uncomfortable, Blair got to his feet and started pacing. "Yeah. He's...different." 

Catching the slight pause, Vince eyed the compact figure. "What happened, Blair?" Seeing the other man's mouth open to protest, Deal pressed on, "Don't try to fool me, kid; I could always read you like a book. Something happened between you and Ellison. Did he get too close? What?" 

"Did he get too close?" echoed Sandburg, giving a short, unhappy laugh. "Yeah, I guess you could say he did." Biting his lip, he continued pacing agitatedly for some minutes. Then, he blurted out, "He touched me, Vince; he held me! What's even more extraordinary, he didn't seem to notice anything wrong." 

That astounding piece of news brought the other man rocketing to his feet. "What?!" Standing there, gaping, for long seconds, Deal finally managed, "How the hell is that possible? No one can comfortably get that close to you, Blair; not even me. Why the hell is Ellison so special?" There was a faint, but unmistakable, tinge of jealousy in the smooth tones. 

Intent on his own whirling thoughts, Sandburg missed it. "It was so odd, man. I was completely blown away at seeing all that blood and gore in the cabinet; so I got a little dizzy and almost fell over. Detective Ellison grabbed me just to make sure I stayed on my feet. I didn't even realize for ages that someone was holding me. After three years, you'd think that would be something I'd notice right away, but I didn't." He gave another brief laugh. "When it finally got my attention, all I wanted was for him to never let go. How stupid is that, huh?" 

Fighting down his jealousy and hurt pride.after all, _he_ was Blair's closest friend, confidant and surrogate father; _he_ was the only person to be fully aware of Blair's true purpose.Vince offered quietly, "It's not stupid at all, Blair. You've always been a very tactile person; everyone needs to be held once in awhile." 

"Thanks, man." Giving the man who had always been there for him a grateful smile, Blair visibly resisted the impulse to hug him. 

"So you liked being held by Detective Ellison?" ventured Deal, breaking several minutes of contemplative silence. 

"Yeah, I did." Sandburg sounded almost defensive. 

"Hey, calm down, kid," urged Deal. "I wasn't judging; you know me better than that. Has it ever bothered me that you preferred men over women?" 

"No." Blair gave him a sheepish smile. "Sorry, man. It's just." 

"Just what?" encouraged Deal. 

"Beside anything else, outside the whole bizarre reason I'm even here, there was this strange rightness about being held by him. As though it was meant to be." Sandburg struggled to express what his instincts were telling him. "When I looked up into his eyes-those beautiful clear blue eyes-it was as if this warmth and light shot into me, all the way to my soul. It was like I was home, Vince, and I've never felt that way." Abruptly antagonistic for no logical reason he could name, Blair glared at Deal. "Detective Ellison felt the same way. I could tell." 

"Whoa, kid," protested Deal, dismayed. "You can't get involved with this guy; you know that." 

"Why not?" Sandburg was all spikes and defiance. "Why can't I have him? We don't know what will happen after I confront Stoddard. After I do their little job, maybe they'll consider they owe me." 

"Kid, try to see reason," pleaded Vince, his stomach clenching. This kind of behavior was completely atypical for Sandburg. "How can you hope to have a future with Detective Ellison?" Seeing the obstinate stance had not left the figure opposite him, Deal snarled, "I can't believe you're going to encourage this man! Are you going to tell him the truth? About everything?" 

Eyes dropping, Blair replied sullenly, "It might not be necessary to tell him anything. He didn't seem to notice anything amiss this morning; why should I have to tell him differently? Perhaps I can go ahead and deal with Stoddard without involving him." 

"Blair, that man is a seasoned police detective who is investigating a murder. A murder that happened in your prop sword cabinet," bit out Deal. "Do you honestly believe he isn't going to be checking into both our backgrounds? He isn't going to overlook anything; he'll verify every detail, no matter how insignificant it may appear. What's going to happen when he discovers the damn box doesn't have a drop bottom?" Deal took a deep breath and came out with the worst case scenario. "If he checks too deeply into your background, kid. Naomi will be the least of your problems." 

Resistance crumbling, Blair gave a shaky sigh and ran a trembling hand through his hair. "I know; oh, god, do I know. But..." 

"You just wanted to be free to fall in love like the rest of the world," Deal finished for him, smiling sorrowfully. "I wish you could, too. I really do. But it's just not possible now, Blair, and I'm so very sorry about that." 

"Yeah." Sandburg's throat tightened and he could not go on. 

Turning away, he stalked over to the huge picture window. Back rigid, he stood staring sightlessly out at the city sprawled before him. Wisely, Deal offered no well-meant, though useless, platitudes. Sighing, he went into his bedroom and closed the door, giving the grieving man at least the illusion of privacy. 

<<<>>>

Arriving back at the police garage, Ellison ran into Banks at the garage elevator. The big captain was on his way to his lawyer's office to check on the status of his divorce and, consequently, was not in the best of moods. 

"So you're finally back," snarled Banks. "As long as you've been gone, those damn assistants should've given you info on a half dozen murders." 

"Sandburg and Deal lied," Ellison stated, turbulent emotions well hidden. 

"What?" exclaimed his captain. Chomping on his unlit cigar, Simon growled, "Well, you might have something, at that. What did they lie about?" 

"There isn't a drop bottom in any of those damn cabinets," declared the detective. "So why the hell did Sandburg cancel the show?" 

"Hmm. Maybe it has nothing to do with the girl's death, but it sure is funny that a performer would cancel a paid-in-full show, especially when it was going well. Then, he offers to give a free performance later. It doesn't make sense." Banks removed his cigar and pointed it at Ellison. "Run their background checks immediately. Maybe they also lied about never having met the Reynolds girl before last night." 

"Yes, sir," mumbled Jim. 

Simon gave him a hard look. "Is there a problem here?" 

"No, sir," Ellison denied quickly. He couldn't adequately explain to himself why it felt so wrong to be investigating Sandburg; there was no way he could or would convince Banks of the same. 

"Good." Banks turned and strode away to his car. He lit up the cigar on his way. 

Cursing vehemently under his breath, Ellison stomped onto the elevator. By the time he'd disembarked on the seventh floor, he had himself back under control. He headed purposefully for his desk and immediately reached for his computer keyboard. Seconds later, the request for general information had been entered into the system. Depending on what came back on each man, he would then run them through CDIC and VICAP. Not giving himself time to consider what he'd done, Ellison set to work typing up his daily report. That task accomplished, the cop leaned back in his chair, swiping both hands over his face. Glancing at his watch, Ellison gave a tired grimace; it was after seven in the evening, and he'd gone on shift at seven that morning. Not knowing if Banks was coming back to the office after his appointment, and not willing to wait around to find out, Ellison grabbed a pen and scribbled a note to inform his captain that he intended to check out Sandburg's show that evening. After depositing both report and note on Banks' desk, Ellison snatched up his jacket and left, calling a weary good-bye to his co-workers. 

<<<>>>

Not quite an hour later, the senior detective was leaning against a backstage wall at the Westcott Theater. From his vantage point, he not only had a clear view of all onstage activity, but could also see portions of the audience and the corridor approach from the dressing rooms. Maintaining a pose of casual indifference, Ellison warily scrutinized the bustling area with his heightened sight and hearing. Even though he was a stranger to theatrical doings, he had to admit he wasn't picking up anything incriminating or unusual. The myriad of conversations swirling around him all seemed to be about the upcoming performance. He did hear a low-voiced concern about the electrical system. Since those comments had come from Peter Danvers, huddled with a man Ellison took to be the theater electrician, the cop passed over the conversation as unremarkable. 

Ellison rubbed at burning eyes and brought his hearing level back to `normal'. He was tired and, therefore, loathe to use his overly sensitive senses for longer than absolutely necessary. After leaving the PD, he had headed for his home, a converted warehouse loft near the waterfront. However, he had returned there for only a short time: just long enough to gulp a meal of leftover Chinese noodles from the refrigerator and to snatch an even faster shower. Not wanting to stand out at the refined theater, he had swiftly shaved and dressed in a soft charcoal gray suit, with a medium orchid dress shirt and silk tie one shade darker. He had then grabbed his long, black dress coat and left for the theater. 

Hearing his name called, Ellison turned to see Talbot and Chilombo approaching him. Trailing behind them, eyes wide in patent interest, was Cassie Welles. All three were dressed in their stage attire. 

"Mr. Talbot, Mr. Chilombo, Ms. Welles." Ellison acknowledged the performers with a nod. 

"Come to see how it's done, mate?" questioned Talbot, brown eyes sparkling with amusement. 

Letting himself unbend a little, Ellison gave a half-grin and shrugged. "Well, it's not as if Mr. Sandburg would tell me, now is it?" 

Chilombo snorted. "Not likely, chum. All illusionists would rather go to their graves than give up their secrets." 

"You guys get the new trick all worked out?" asked Ellison, only mildly interested. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Welles was getting more and more frustrated by his apparent disinterest. The voluptuous red-head was obviously accustomed to receiving the majority of masculine attention, especially when she was decked out in her skimpy, leave-nothing-to-theimagination stage costume. 

"Sure thing," said Talbot enthusiastically. "Wait until you see." 

The Australian's voice abruptly faded into the background. 

Propelled by an urge deeper than instinct, Ellison whipped his head to the left. Blair Sandburg had just rounded the bend in the corridor, deep in conversation with his manager. As if he'd heard Ellison, the illusionist stopped, his dark eyes swinging up and locking with the cop's. Pinned by the intensity of the gaze, Ellison found himself drawn deeper and deeper into the oceancolored orbs. 

Time and space ceased to have any meaning. Inexplicably, the shrill calls of monkeys and birds assaulted Ellison's hearing; the dank, moldy smell of wet jungle wafted into his nostrils. The Westcott's backstage wavered and shifted, reforming into tangled vines and towering trees. At the edge of his peripheral vision, in among the trees, were glimpses of a black-on-black shape moving sinuously through the undergrowth. The hot, damp wind of a tropical storm brushed his face. 

Suddenly, over and above the jungle noise, came a steady pounding. Not too loud, yet unmistakably close, it was strangely calming in its regular cadence. The rhythmic thumping washed over him, caressing and soothing. Like a drowning man clawing for a lifeline, Ellison reached out for the sound and embraced it, drawing it deeply into himself. 

He was content. 

Soon, though, his contentment was invaded by a sharp, unpleasant buzzing. Irritated, he tried to ignore the intrusive noise, attempted to return to the gentle rhythm of the thumping, but the buzzing would not let him go. It grew louder and louder. 

"...not even paying attention, are you," sniped Cassie Welles. "How like a cop!" 

Blinking madly and shaking his head to clear it, Ellison forced himself to break eye contact with Sandburg. Turning back to the three assistants, he found Talbot and Chilombo regarding him with dual puzzled looks, while Welles seemed merely disgusted. Frantically trying to cover his lapse-god, what in the hell happened!-Ellison smiled and apologized, "Sorry for the glazed eyes. It's been a long day." 

The two men took the apology at face value and made sympathetic noises. Welles' look of displeasure deepened and she flounced off, head high. 

"We'd best be getting our arses in gear," stated Talbot, having caught sight of Sandburg coming up the hallway. "Maybe we'll catch you after the show, eh?" 

"Maybe," responded Ellison vaguely. His entire focus was on the approaching illusionist and his manager. Mindful of the troop's earlier statements about how Sandburg wouldn't let even Deal too physically close to him, Ellison duly noted the almost two feet of clear space between them. In fact, to the cop's critical eye, it appeared as if Deal was forcing himself to be that near. It didn't make sense, not in light of the supposed long friendship between the two men. 

"Good evening," he greeted blandly as they came up beside him. Try as he might, Ellison could not keep his eyes from straying back to the illusionist. Sandburg looked sophisticated and unattainable in his formal wear. 

"Good evening, Detective," answered Deal. "Are you here for business or pleasure?" 

"Maybe a little of both," Ellison replied unguardedly, eyes drifting back to Sandburg. Seeing the knowing look in the hypnotic eyes, he flushed a little and waited somewhat fearfully for the magician's response. 

"Perhaps we could meet after the show?" queried Sandburg hesitantly. "Maybe have a late dinner?" 

Although Ellison's face never lost its professional mien, Sandburg knew his message had been received loud and clear by the sudden glint in the clear eyes. Yes! thought the illusionist in triumph. He glanced over at his manager, and some of his excitement dimmed. 

"Blair," warned Deal, voice stiff and disapproving. "I thought we agreed that we had something important to do tonight after the show?" 

So stunned was he at Sandburg's apparent willingness, it took the cop several seconds to realize that the atmosphere had become charged with tension. Ellison re-focused to see Deal glaring at the younger man, while the magician stared back, a defiant look on his face. Hmm, this is interesting. The detective unobtrusively watched the by-play. Is Deal upset because Sandburg is showing an interest in a man? Or is he upset that Sandburg is going to be alone with a cop? What is he afraid Sandburg is going to do.or say? What is Deal hiding, beside the fake props? 

"We can do that tomorrow." Sandburg airily brushed off his manager's concerns. Right now, at this point in time, he didn't care that he might be shirking his duty. One last stubborn glare at Deal, and he turned back to Ellison. Eyes bright in anticipation, the illusionist stated, "If you don't mind coming back to my dressing room after the show, Detective, we can figure out what we're going to do." 

"Sure thing," agreed Ellison cheerfully, keeping a close watch on Deal out of the corner of his eye. The older man's face had darkened and his eyes were snapping. Ellison was positive it was only his presence that kept Deal from exploding all over his charge. 

Fully aware of his friend's acid disapproval, but hoping that Ellison was not picking up the sub-text, Blair smiled widely. Just then, the orchestra out front broke into the opening notes of Claude Debussy's `Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun'. 

"Sorry, but that's my cue," explained the magician, drawing away. 

"Break a leg," Ellison called after the retreating performer. 

Blair flung a beaming smile over his shoulder at the cop then, smile unabated, he bounced out onto the stage. 

The auditorium burst into thunderous applause. 

"He's very popular," observed Ellison, having to raise his voice to be heard over the crowd's adulation. 

"Yes, he is," Deal answered shortly. He gave the cop a pointed look. "That kid's the closest thing I ever came to a son. He's very special." 

Affecting not to notice the older man's seething displeasure, Ellison just nodded in agreement. In all actuality, the detective was not really aware of the other man, for a bizarre fact had just struck him. The steady, soothing thumping he had heard in his fugue state was still with him, had been ever since he'd emerged from that foggy interlude. The noise had never quite come to the forefront of his thoughts, yet neither had it entirely vanished from his awareness. Subconsciously, Ellison sent out his senses to find the origin of the calming sound. 

Oddly, he was not at all surprised to find the source onstage, laughingly preparing to saw Tanisha DeNovo in half. It's Sandburg's heart beat. That knowledge gave Ellison a peculiar sort of satisfaction; he didn't question why he could hear it now, but had been unable to locate the sound earlier in the day. Ignoring the thundercloud beside him, he propped a shoulder against a convenient wall and prepared to watch the performance in unalloyed enjoyment. 

<<<>>>

Sweat pasting his shirt clammily against him, smile plastered firmly on his face, Blair gamely took another bow. While usually he reveled in his audience's appreciation, embracing the feeling of human contact it gave him, tonight he was too on edge to find pleasure in anything but the real thing. He again glanced off to his right; on spying Ellison, his heart sped up and his breathing quickened. The knowledge that the handsome cop was watching tonight had almost driven Blair to distraction. It had taken every iota of his willpower to concentrate on his performance. But at last, the tiring show was over and he was now free to spend the rest of the evening with Ellison. If only the audience would stop its damn applauding! 

On that uncharitable thought, Blair bowed once more, kissed both hands to the crowd, then turned and walked off stage. As usual, Vince met him, tossing a towel to the illusionist so he could wipe the perspiration from his face. While he smiled at his manager, it was to the elegantly dressed man casually leaning against the wall that he spoke. 

"Well? What did you think of it?" Unconsciously, Sandburg held his breath as he awaited the judgment. 

"Spectacular," replied Ellison promptly. "Absolutely amazing. Even though I was watching for it, I couldn't tell how you did half that stuff. Especially the levitation thing." 

Blushing, Blair laughed and retorted, "You weren't supposed to be able to figure it out, man! Don't you know an illusionist never gives his secrets away?" 

"Surely there are some secrets he shares?" 

Pulse quickening at the unmistakable light in the sky blue eyes, Blair took a deep breath and calmly met the other man's gaze. "Some secrets can be shared, but they're not for everyone." Wiping once again at his face, he grimaced and changed the subject. "Man, if I think I smell, where does that leave everyone else?" He cast a pseudo-glare at the cop. "No comments from the peanut gallery, all right?" 

Ellison was clearly fighting back a grin. "The thought never occurred to me, Chief." 

"Yeah, sure." Feeling unaccountably pleased with the banter, Sandburg headed for his dressing room, tossing over his shoulder, "So where's a good place to eat in this town? I'm starving." 

As he'd hoped, that remark brought Ellison to his side. "Depends on what you like," the bigger man said. "We've got all sorts of places." Together, the two men started down the corridor, amicably arguing over the merits of various types of cuisine. Both were unaware of the frowning gaze which followed them. 

Coming up to the door of Sandburg's dressing room, Ellison waited while the other man unlocked the door. His attention was suddenly caught by a sound which came from the room next door, the sealed-off storage room. Ricardo's deserted chair was still set firmly against the corridor wall next to the door. Quickly checking with his hearing, the cop relaxed upon hearing the familiar mutter of Serena Chang, Cascade PD's Chief of Forensics. Returning his attention to the matter at hand, Ellison noticed Sandburg looking at him curiously. 

"Is something wrong, Detective?" 

"No, no." Ellison hastened to reassure the other man. "I just heard a noise in the storage room. It's okay, though; it's only our Forensics head. She must be looking for something." 

Blair ushered him into the dressing room and gave him another puzzled look. "You can tell it's her from the hallway? Man, your hearing must be phenomenal!" 

His back to the cop as he took off his tie and slipped out of his shirt, Sandburg was nonetheless aware of the sudden surge of tension from behind him. Not knowing what he'd said to alarm the cop, but unwilling to strain their burgeoning friendship with questions Ellison might not be wanting to answer, Blair asked, "So what did we agree on? Pizza? Chinese?" He ignored the waves of relief streaming off Ellison, and ducked behind his oriental screen to quickly bathe and dress. 

"How about Thai?" suggested Jim, glad that the illusionist hadn't appeared to notice his consternation. Watch what the hell you say, Ellison, he sternly rebuked himself. I know it feels as though you've known him for a long time, but you haven't. The man is still a stranger. That the man was also a suspect in an active investigation was something the normally by-the-book cop was willing to overlook for the present. "You said you liked it; I've been told a fabulous place just opened up over on Gardner Street." 

"But do you like it?" argued Sandburg from behind the screen. "It's much spicier than Chinese, you know." 

"It's been years since I've had it," Jim admitted, wandering around the tiny dressing room, idly perusing its fixtures. "But I'm sure I can cope." If necessary, he'd just turn down his sense of taste. 

"Whatever you say, man." Sandburg had finished dressing and popped out from behind the screen. Going over to a battered over-stuffed chair, he plopped down into it and reached for a pair of hiking boots. 

Grinning, Ellison watched him, struck by the difference between Shaman, the illusionist and Blair Sandburg, the person. Gone was the fashionably held back hair, white formal shirt, cummerbund with silk tie and trousers. In their place was a loose mass of long, chestnut curls, a comfortable flannel shirt over a gray Henley undershirt and a pair of worn jeans. Ellison somehow knew the ultra-sophisticated Shaman was the illusion. This was the real Blair Sandburg. 

Finished with tying his last shoelace, Blair glanced up to find himself under close appraisal. He blushed, but held the cop's gaze steadily. "All ready to go," he announced somewhat breathlessly. 

"Don't forget a jacket," Ellison advised huskily, eyes strangely tender. "Wouldn't want you to catch cold in the wet Cascade air, Chief." 

Obediently, Blair reached for his black leather jacket. He shrugged into it as Ellison held open the door. Taking his courage in both hands, Sandburg asked, "Why do you call me that?" 

For a second, the larger man looked puzzled, then he seemed to freeze in place. "Sorry," mumbled Ellison. He glanced away, then appeared to find something of interest on the lapel of his coat. "It's an old nickname given to me by my first football coach. I won't use it again, Mr. Sandburg." 

Dismayed by the sudden chill between them, Blair came up to the other man. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to put a hand on the broad chest. He said quickly, "It's all right; I don't mind it." Suddenly feeling awkward himself, he canted a shy glance up at the detective. "I've never had a real nickname before, Detective Ellison. I like it. Vince calls me `kid', but it's because I still am to him." To his secret relief, the tension eased out of the chest under his hand. 

Ellison took a steadying breath and cursed himself for letting his past come between them. "You sure?" he checked. When Sandburg nodded decisively, Ellison gave a crooked grin. "My name is Jim, Chief." 

A grin of his own surfacing at the nickname, Sandburg swept out the door. Once Ellison had shut it, he locked the door again. Just as he was sticking the key into his jeans' pocket, the door to the storage room opened and an African-American woman walked out. There was a fierce scowl on her face which faded into astonishment at the sight of Ellison. 

"Damn, Ellison!" she exclaimed. "You sure do clean up good. Now I'm beginning to understand what Carolyn saw in you." 

Aware of Blair keenly hanging onto every word, Ellison hastened into speech. "Thanks, I'm sure," he replied sarcastically. Remembering his manners, he said, "Chief, this is Serena Chang; Serena, Blair Sandburg, alias Shaman." 

"Pleased to meet you, Ms. Chang," murmured Blair from where he'd retreated behind Ellison. He did not offer his hand. 

Ellison noted the oversight. 

If Serena did, she gave no indication of it, saying warmly, "It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Sandburg. I've heard so many good things about you." 

"What's brought you back out this late, Serena?" inquired Ellison. He was battling with the apparently schizophrenic nature of the Sandburg personality. In his dressing room, Blair had been at ease and hadn't hesitated to touch the cop; introduced to someone else, the younger man had fled behind the larger detective and refused to initiate a simple, courteous handshake. Swearing he would get to the bottom of the bizarre behavior, Jim tuned back in to the conversation. 

"Just had to retrieve a field kit," answered Chang, holding up a large metallic suitcase. "Robertson left it here this afternoon when he and Douglas returned for the sword cabinet." 

"There shouldn't have been a need for you to come out and get it." A small frown sat on Ellison's face. He didn't approve of unaccompanied women roaming the streets after dark. "Ricardo should've brought it in with him when he followed the van back." 

"Yeah, but it didn't happen that way," grumbled Serena. "My guys said he wasn't here when they arrived, so..." 

"Wasn't here!" The frown faded into an intense look. "What the hell do you mean by that?" 

Slightly taken aback by the brusque question, Serena replied coolly, "Just what I said; Robertson and Douglas said Ricardo was not here when they arrived just after six o'clock." 

Swearing under his breath, Ellison dug into his coat pocket and pulled out his cell. Hitting a number on his speed dial, he waited impatiently while the phone on the other end rang. 

"Jim, what is it? Is something wrong?" 

The worried query came from behind him. Serena was also giving him a strange look. "Something sure as hell is wrong, Chief," growled Ellison. "I left the theater around five forty-five and Ricardo was sitting right beside that damn door." 

Ellison watched Serena pale as the implications struck her. Just then, the phone on the other end was finally picked up. "Simon, we've got a problem." He wasted no time on inessentials. "Ricardo's missing. He was guarding the storage room as ordered when I left the theater around five forty-five. Serena just now tells me he wasn't here when her guys came for the cabinet around six." 

Jim was aware he had automatically tensed in preparation for trouble. He relaxed a little when a strong hand came to rest on his back. "Will do," he replied in answer to orders from Banks. Shutting his cell, he turned to the Forensic investigator and said, "You might as well wait around, Serena. God only knows what we're going to find." 

"Of course." Serena was anxious, but professional. 

Ellison turned, and with his back to Chang, gave a small smile. Blair was also pale, but trying to conceal it. "Sorry, Chief," Jim apologized. "Looks like we're going to have to re-schedule that dinner." 

Sandburg gave him an incredulous look. "You think?" He ran a nervous hand through his hair. "A missing person always takes precedence over a dinner. Any ideas where we should look first?" 

An absurd feeling of pride came over Ellison at the magician's obvious intent to assist. God, he must be completely worn out from his performance, he knows this might turn nasty, yet he's still determined to help out. Putting his hands on the wide shoulders, Ellison said quietly, "I think it would be best if you sat this one out, Chief. You've done enough for one night." 

As Sandburg opened his mouth to remonstrate, a piercing scream echoed through the corridor. Without thinking, Ellison dashed up the hall, distantly aware that Blair was hot on his heels. The high scream came again, and again for a third time, before the cop reached the empty backstage area. Face white, eyes wide, hands over her mouth as she screamed once more, Cassie Welles was staring at a figure lying limply in the middle of the deserted stage. 

Face frozen, Ellison cautiously approached the bloody lump. Swallowing repeatedly, he squatted down and sighed heavily. He'd been sure of what he would find, but he'd had to verify his instincts. Glancing up, he looked past Blair's ashen face to Serena Chang. "Call Banks, Serena. Tell him we found Ricardo." He glanced back down at what had once been a living human being. "Or at least what's left of him." 

<<<>>>

It was almost six o'clock in the morning before Ellison found himself standing aimlessly on the sidewalk outside the theater. His tie had long since been tugged off, rolled up and haphazardly shoved into a coat pocket. The long black coat was draped over his arm. Standing there, taking in great draughts of dawn-sweet air, he heard Banks come up behind him. 

"I want him, Jim," said Banks without preamble. "I want the bastard who did this, and I want him now." 

Ellison heard the cold viciousness in his boss' voice; heard it, and understood it. "We'll get him, Simon," he promised, voice equally as frigid. "The fucker just turned cop killer. There's nowhere he can hide." 

Letting out a huge, gusting sigh, Banks ran an exhausted hand over his face. "I just can't understand it," he admitted heavily. "You leave at five fortyfive and Ricardo's right where he's supposed to be. Approximately half an hour later, he's missing. His body is found in the middle of the fucking stage less than twenty minutes after Sandburg's show ends at ten-thirty. I don't get it, Jim." Banks shook his head in bewilderment. "Where the hell was he all that time?" 

Ellison shook his own head. "I have no idea, Simon." 

It was as if Banks hadn't heard him. He shook his head again, trying to find the reason and logic in an act of utter insanity. "You were backstage from eight o'clock on; hell, the whole damn theater was crawling with people from seven on and yet no one heard or saw a thing. No one." 

Clapping a hand to the other man's shoulder, Ellison gave his friend a small shake. "Go home, Simon. Take a shower, get something to eat, sleep a little if you can. There's nothing more we can do until Forensics finishes." 

"Yeah, you're right," Banks acknowledged dully. Wearily heading for his car, he stopped and turned. "You heading home, too?" 

Drawing his gaze back from the end of the block where he'd parked his Expedition the night before, Ellison answered quietly, "No. It's a little late for a Thai dinner, but maybe I could substitute breakfast, instead." He grinned at a bewildered Banks. "Go home, Simon; you're dead on your feet. I'll be in later this afternoon." 

"See you then." 

Banks once more headed for his car. Once there, something made him stop before getting in. Looking back up the street toward Ellison's SUV, he was in time to see a figure appear around the far side of the vehicle. The man walked up to Ellison and put a hand on the cop's arm. The two men stood close together for some minutes, apparently talking. Then Sandburg--for Banks could see it was, indeed, the illusionist--pulled his hand away. Going back around the SUV, the magician climbed into the passenger seat of the Expedition just as Ellison started the motor. 

Thoughtfully, Simon got into his own vehicle as the truck turned the far corner and disappeared from view. Starting his engine, Banks sat there for a few minutes, tired brain sluggishly working at what he had just inadvertently witnessed. Sandburg, along with the rest of the theatrical troop, had been questioned and let go around four in the morning. They had all supposedly been driven back to their various hotels. _Why, then_ , mused Banks, *is Sandburg lurking outside the theater two hours after he'd been taken back to his hotel? Obviously he's been waiting for Jim, but why? Does it have anything to do with Jim's odd remark about a Thai dinner and breakfast?* 

Shaking his head again, Banks pulled out into the early morning traffic. He refused to consider that he had seen Sandburg put his hand on Ellison's arm. Banks was well aware of Ellison's alternative tendencies; he also knew how rarely the big cop permitted himself to indulge those same tendencies. Simon lit a cigar and determinedly set his mind to working on Ricardo's murder. He wasn't going to worry that his chief detective--and close friend--might be getting romantically involved with a murder suspect. 

<<<>>>

The drive to the restaurant had been quiet and relaxed. Pulling into the parking lot, Jim glanced over at his passenger and smiled. "You didn't have to wait around for me, Chief. I know you must be exhausted from the show." 

Blair dismissed that remark with a careless wave of his hand. "I'm willing to bet you're just as wiped, man. Besides," he gave a half-grin and shrugged, "we had a date. I haven't had so many of them these past few years that I can afford to miss even one." 

Jim laughed as he exited the SUV. "Somehow, I don't believe you've ever been hard up for a date." 

Blair hopped out of the passenger side. Coming up alongside the older man, he grinned again. "Probably as hard up as you. Particularly if you always go around looking so gorgeous." The cerulean eyes sparkled. 

For the first time in uncounted years, Ellison felt himself blushing. To the accompaniment of Sandburg's gleeful chortle, he escorted the illusionist into the restaurant with a hand in the small of Sandburg's back. Once inside, the men were quickly led to a small booth in the rear. It only took a swift exchange of looks for both men to come to an agreement on their orders. 

"Two coffees, please," requested Ellison. 

"And keep the refills coming," muttered Sandburg. 

Silence reigned between them until the waitress had filled their large mugs and left. Once she had walked away, Ellison took a gulp of the hot liquid before blurting out, "I know there isn't a drop bottom in the sword cabinet, Chief. In fact, you don't have a drop bottom or escape route in any of your prop boxes." 

Calmly, Sandburg took a sip from his mug. Though he was the outward picture of cool composure, Ellison had no difficulty hearing his heart rate speed up. 

"I'd wondered how long it would be before you spotted that." Blair steadily met the cop's eyes. 

"Why did you lie?' queried Ellison. "Was the real problem with the trick a trade secret? Chilombo told me that an illusionist would rather go to his grave than reveal his secrets." 

"Go to my grave--Tomas sure has a way with words, doesn't he." Sandburg shook his head and gave a short laugh. "A secret? Yeah, I guess you could say that, man. Most cops wouldn't have been receptive to that answer," he continued diplomatically. "I'm sorry for trying to deceive you, but that was the only answer I could give. I honestly don't make a habit of lying to anyone, especially the police." A quick smile lifted the full lips. "That goes double for the extremely good-looking ones." 

Again a slight blush spread over Ellison's classically handsome face. "It's never a good idea, Chief," he reproved mildly, "to lie to any cop-even the ugly ones." A grin on his face, he continued, "It just makes us even more suspicious." 

"I can understand that." Blair sighed, then shot the cop a determined look. "Don't ask me why I stopped the show, Jim. I can't tell you, no matter what the consequences are." 

To Sandburg's surprise, Ellison merely gave a brisk nod. "Fair enough." Taking another sip of coffee, Jim then gave the man seated across from him a grim look and asked bluntly, "Did you have anything to do with the deaths of Cynthia Reynolds and Jorge Ricardo?" 

Listening intently, Ellison was overwhelmingly relieved to note that Sandburg's heart rate never altered. 

Blair made no effort to break eye contact. "I didn't kill them, or assist in the act in any way, Jim," he stated quietly, but firmly. A shadow abruptly flashed across the expressive face and he dropped his eyes. Long, capable fingers tightened around the coffee mug. "However, I can't honestly deny that." 

"The murders are somehow related to you," Ellison finished for him. 

Sandburg nodded miserably. 

"I already had that part figured out, Chief," Jim said softly. "It's obvious to any cop: two deaths, both after one of your performances, both bodies discovered in places where you had easy access." He took a deep breath and inquired, softer still, "Do you know who's doing this?" 

There was no reply. Sandburg kept his eyes down, fingers playing with his coffee mug. 

"Chief? Answer me," commanded Ellison gently. There was no real need for a verbal response. It was apparent to the experienced detective that the answer was in the affirmative. The jump in heart rate and respiration were just added confirmation. 

"I can't say," the illusionist finally forced out. He raised desperate eyes. Ellison felt his resolve melting at the look of pure entreaty. "Please, Jim, don't ask me that question. I-I don't think I could lie to you, even if I wanted to, but I can't answer that question!" 

Once again, to Sandburg's eternal astonishment, the cop backed off. He wouldn't have been so massively relieved, however, if he could have read Ellison's mind. Smugly certain he knew who Sandburg was protecting, but unsure why he was doing so, Jim merely commented, "Drink your coffee, Chief. It's getting cold." 

A slightly uncomfortable silence fell. The tired-looking waitress wandered back over to fill their mugs. Blair gave her a small smile. Hiding his grin behind his mug, Ellison watched blandly as the woman left with considerably more bounce in her step. Looking over at Sandburg, he eyed the suddenly squirming figure. 

"You might as well spit it out, Chief," he said tolerantly. "You're going to bust soon if you don't." 

Flushing, Blair took a bolstering sip of coffee. "I was just curious, that's all." He glanced up at Ellison, then back down again quickly. "Who's Carolyn?" 

Back stiffening, Jim dropped his eyes. He sighed, knowing he should have been prepared for that question in light of Serena Chang's remark. 

Sandburg took in the suddenly rigid posture and flushed again. "Sorry, man, incurable nosiness. Just ignore me." He took a gulp of hot coffee and said brightly, "Hey, look at the time! I'd better shove off so you can get some sleep." 

"Stay, Blair. Please." 

The low protest halted the magician in mid-motion as he was rising. Sinking back onto the faded plastic of the booth seat, Blair bit his lower lip as he watched the other man uncertainly. 

Reluctance pouring off him, Ellison apologized, "Sorry. You've got every right to ask; it's just." 

"You don't like talking about your private life." 

"Yeah." Ellison gave a half-hearted grin as he took in the understanding gaze leveled at him. 

"So we won't." 

Lowering his gaze again, Ellison fought with himself over taking that freely offered out. Then, before his nerve could fail, he ground out, "Carolyn is my ex-wife. She walked out about eighteen months ago. We'd been married less than a year." 

"Sorry about that, man." 

Hearing the honest sympathy in the husky voice, Ellison shrugged. "No need for that, Chief. It really was for the best; I was a lousy husband." 

"It's none of my business what went on between you and her, but remember this: It takes two to make a marriage work or fail." 

Stunned at that astute comment, Ellison glanced back up. There was only empathy in Sandburg's steady regard. 

Unable to maintain eye contact, Jim dropped his eyes back down to the scarred table. It was now his turn to nervously play with his mug. Debating with himself the merits of continuing the conversation, he acknowledged how surprisingly easy it was to confide in Sandburg. Normally, it felt as though he was being flayed alive when he was forced to talk about his private life. Blair made the chore almost tolerable; the thought of confessing his many past failures didn't seem to hurt so badly. For some reason, Jim knew he could tell the younger man anything and that Blair would only listen, not judge. 

Grasping his weakening courage in both hands, he spit out, "She said it was like she was living with a robot." 

Blair took several unobtrusive deep breaths and fought back his quick anger toward a woman he had never met. Ellison hid a surprisingly sensitive heart under his macho, hard man exterior and the illusionist could feel the many layers of hurt and betrayal buried deep in the stoic cop. Instinctively realizing how difficult it was for Jim to admit to any of the softer emotions, Blair knew he had to choose his words with inordinate care. One misstep and Ellison would clam up. 

"That was a very unkind thing to say." Sandburg was extremely careful to let none of his feelings seep through. "I don't know why she would say that, Jim; she must've been very angry at that point, but that still doesn't excuse her. All I can tell you is this: she's wrong, very much so. I've only known you a little while, but I can already tell you're a very passionate, caring person. I consider myself so very lucky that you appear to want to spend some time with me." 

Ambushed by an unexpected wave of emotion, Ellison gave a twisted grin as he looked up. "Appearances aren't always deceiving, Chief. I'm the lucky one, not you." He took a deep breath and gave another shrug. "I've never had much luck with women. When I was seven, my mother walked out on us because of me." 

If Ellison hadn't been so preoccupied, he would have heard Sandburg's teeth grind together at that. 

"Who told you that?" Blair managed, with great difficulty, to keep his voice level. "Your father?" 

"Yeah. I'm a rather odd person; I always have been. My mother just couldn't take my weirdness. I can't say I really blame her." Feeling as though all his nerve endings were raw and showing, Ellison fell silent. 

"That's just bullshit." 

Shock at this blunt statement caused Jim to snap his head up. Astonished, he gaped at the clearly angry man across from him. "Chief?" 

"Sorry." Blair was struggling with his temper. He had his own thoughts about Ellison's supposed `weird behavior'. Knowing he couldn't share them at this time, maybe would never be able to, he growled, "As I said before, it takes two to make or break a marriage. Two adults; never a child, no matter how unorthodox the child's behavior may be. If your mother couldn't cope with whatever your actions were, Jim, that's her fault; not yours. She was the adult; you were just a kid. It sounds to me as if your dad is the sort of man who always has to have a scapegoat so that he doesn't have to admit to his own failings as a husband and father." 

Ellison just blinked at him. It was obvious that he was having problems processing this bizarre viewpoint. 

Sandburg gentled his tone. "Have you tried discussing this with your father? Telling him how much his attitude hurts--I mean, bothers you?" 

"Discuss it?" Ellison had recovered enough to give a short bray of laughter. "You must be joking. I haven't seen him, or my younger brother, since Dad decided to ship me off to military school when I was seventeen. The three of us might live here in Cascade, but believe me, the no-contact rule between me and them makes us all happy." 

Blair overlooked the biting sarcasm, hearing only the underlying pain. Judging that Ellison had reached the end of his ability to handle any further personal revelations, he said only, "Maybe that's for the best. Seems to me you're much better off without them." 

Ellison nodded curtly and busied himself with his cooling coffee. He spent the next several minutes hastily re-gathering his usual composure. Sandburg seemed not to notice; he sat placidly sipping his coffee. Grateful for the magician's sensitivity and forbearance, Jim opened his mouth to say so. He was shocked when a large yawn emerged instead. 

Blair burst into giggles at the look on the big cop's face. "Should I take that as a hint?" he choked out. 

"Sorry, Chief." Rubbing his eyes, Ellison checked his watch; it showed seven-thirty. "Guess I'm just getting old. Being up over twenty-four hours never used to bother me this way." 

"Twenty-four hours!" Blair finished his coffee with a single gulp, then stood, throwing some bills on the table. "Come on, man. You're going home. I so don't want to hear about you falling asleep behind the wheel." 

Too tired to argue, Ellison also stood, although he wasn't so far gone he couldn't protest, "I was planning on paying for this." 

Blair unceremoniously hustled the exhausted cop out the door. "Yeah, I know you were. But seeing as how I was the one who even suggested it, how about letting it go, huh? You can pay next time." 

Caught up in the thought that there was going to be a next time, Ellison allowed himself to be steered over to his truck. He stopped, puzzled, when he noticed that Blair hadn't headed over for the passenger side. "Come on, Chief; get in and I'll drive you back to your hotel." 

"No way, man." Sandburg emphatically shook his head, curls flying. "You're already way wiped. My hotel is miles back the other way past the theater. You go; I'll just grab a cab." 

"I don't abandon my dates, Blair." 

"I'll let you know when I'm feeling abandoned. Now-shoo." Blair flapped both hands at him. 

Sandburg was clearly not going to budge on the subject. Ellison unwillingly climbed into the Expedition; after he had started the engine and put it in gear, he glanced out the window to see that Blair had retreated to the sidewalk. He gave a quick wave and Sandburg grinned at him. Extra careful since he was extremely tired, Ellison pulled out and turned in the direction of the loft. Stopping at the light at the corner, he looked in the rearview mirror and frowned. 

Sandburg was nowhere in sight. 

It wasn't until the light had changed that a solution presented itself. *He went back inside to call a cab, you idiot. What did you expect him to do; just hope one came by so he could flag it down?* Mentally shaking his head at his exhaustion-slowed thought processes, Ellison cautiously applied the gas. He headed home, another stray thought teasing at him. *How the hell did Blair know which direction my home was?* 

<<<>>>

Standing in the middle of his suite's lounge area, Sandburg shut his eyes and rubbed both temples. 

"Got a hell of a headache, don't you." The quiet voice came from the door to Deal's bedroom. 

"Yeah." Sandburg wasn't startled by the question; he'd been aware of the other man's presence since he'd arrived. 

"I figured you might," Vince stated gruffly. "You always do when you over-exert yourself. Sit down, kid, and rest. The tea is already on." 

"Thanks, man." Gratefully, Blair sank down onto the sofa and leaned his aching head against the plush back. Even with his eyes closed, he could tell when Deal sat down in the easy chair. 

"I won't ask if you had a nice breakfast." 

"We didn't actually eat," Blair admitted, eyes still shut. "I don't think either of us could have handled the food." 

"Kid, you know damn well it only makes you feel worse if you don't eat regularly. You haven't eaten anything since two hours before last night's show!" 

There was a familiar warmth in Deal's haranguing and Blair just smiled. Opening his eyes, he gave his long-time friend an affectionate look. "Thanks, Vince. For not hassling me about Jim, I mean." 

Deal shrugged nonchalantly. "I thought about it, kid; I really did. If you had come back in the squad car with me, you would've gotten an earful once we arrived here. But I had a chance to cool down and think it over." 

The tea kettle whistled then, and he got up. Going into the suite's tiny kitchenette, he prepared a large mug of Blair's favorite tea. 

Accepting the beverage, Blair murmured his thanks. He took a sip, then, eyes on the steam rising from the mug, he said abruptly, "Jim's a Sentinel." 

"He's a what?!" Stunned, Deal froze in the act of sitting down. 

"Jim's a Sentinel." There was a wealth of barely concealed pain in the quiet voice. "It was obvious from the beginning that there was something special about him, but I wasn't sure what it was. I only figured it out this morning when I was able to spend some time alone with him." 

"Oh, kid." Deal dropped into the chair and gave the younger man a compassionate look. "Blair, I don't know what to say." 

"Ironic, isn't it?" snorted Blair, then clenched his eyes as that act caused a spike of pain in his temples. Riding out the wave, he opened his eyes and said dryly, "All my life, I searched for a Sentinel, and now I find him. Now, when I'm...when I have to concentrate on something else. The universe is probably laughing its ass off." 

"I'm sorry, Blair." Deal was genuinely regretful. "I know how much you wanted. I guess this explains everything, doesn't it; why you two just seemed to click so fast. Ellison being what he is, and you being what you are. You said Sentinels always had a Guide at their back." 

"All questions are answered, aren't they," agreed Sandburg. "But don't feel too sorry for me so soon, man. I have not yet begun to fight for my Sentinel." He grinned. 

Deal chuckled at the deliberate misquote. "If you say so." Noticing that Sandburg was still rubbing throbbing temples, he asked, "Are you turned off?" 

When Blair hurriedly stuck his face in his mug of tea, Deal had his answer. 

"Blair Abraham Sandburg." 

Wincing, Blair shrank back against the couch. He knew what was coming. Vince never used his full name unless he was good and pissed. 

Deal was very angry, indeed. "You damn well know better than this, kid," he scolded in a low voice. Upset as he was, he knew Blair couldn't handle a shouting match at this point. "Turn everything off. Immediately." 

As the older man watched closely, the majority of the pain lines eased from Blair's face. 

"What the hell am I going to do with you?" sighed Deal. "I know you know better than this. You've probably been picking up the emotions of every damn person in a five-block radius. When you get this rundown, you know how everything just presses in on you. You're much too experienced of a shaman to keep getting yourself into such a state." 

"Yes, Vince." Sandburg's eyes were still slightly shadowed, but the spark of amusement was back. "Whatever you say, Vince." 

"'Whatever you say, Vince'!" mocked Deal sarcastically. "That'll be the day." He shook a stern finger at the smiling man. Biting the inside of his cheek so he wouldn't smile back, Deal ordered, "Take that tea and go to bed. I don't want to see you until this afternoon. Late, this afternoon." 

Very much aware of the older man's affection, Blair just smiled gently and got to his feet. Taking his mug, he headed for his bedroom. At the door, he stopped. "See you later, Vince. Thanks again for everything." 

"No problem, kid." Deal winked at him. "Now get that skinny butt of yours into bed." 

"I'm going, I'm going," laughed Blair. 

Deal waited until the door had closed behind the illusionist before he went back into the kitchenette. He emptied the remaining water from the kettle and tidied the small area. Everything clean once more, he started back to his own bedroom and his interrupted slumber. 

Just as he was entering the bedroom, he heard a small noise behind him in the lounge. 

"Do I have to tie you to the bed, young man?" he threatened amiably. 

"Oh, how kinky." The deep voice was thick with malicious anticipation. "Can I play, too?" 

Heart freezing in his chest at the familiar tones, Deal whirled around to gaze at a terrifying vision straight from his personal Hell. 

"Long time, no see, my dearest Vincent," gloated the detested voice. 

Mouth working, Deal tried to speak, but no sound emerged. 

"What this? No greeting for an old, dear friend?" An artistic sigh, then a low, malevolent laugh burst forth. "That's all right, my dear Vince. I know how overcome you get at reunions." 

"No," Deal managed to force the single word out past the boulder in his throat. "NO! Eli, I." 

All traces of humor vanished from the malignant face. "I've waited twenty-nine years for this opportunity, and I have so much planned for you. You're coming with me, Vincent...now." 

Before Vince could open his mouth to scream, an icy blackness engulfed him. 

<<<>>>

"Captain Banks wants you in his office. ASAP," called Rafe as Ellison walked into the bullpen. 

Jim nodded. Talk about your deja vu didn't yesterday start this way? Crossing his mental fingers that the summons wasn't the precursor of another exhausting day, Ellison tapped on the glass door. 

"Come!" came the curt order from inside. 

Opening the door, Ellison entered and came to a stop in front of Bank's desk. "You wanted to see me, sir?" 

Simon finally raised his head from the piece of paper he'd been scowling at. "Ah, Jim. Sit down, man." He waved the detective into a chair and automatically twisted around to grab his coffee pot. Pouring a large mug full of the fragrant brew, he handed it to Ellison. 

Sitting back in his office chair, Banks regarded him critically. "Well, you're looking a little better. How much sleep did you get?" 

Jim glanced at the clock behind Banks. "About five hours; I got to bed just before eight." He studied his friend; the lines of exhaustion were still apparent on the dark face, but they had eased. "You?" 

"I was a good little boy," replied Banks. The deep voice held a tinge of sarcasm. "I went straight home just as you ordered, and was in bed by seven." He took a sip from the mug sitting on his desk. "I've only been in a few minutes, myself." 

"Anything new on Reynolds or Ricardo?" 

"Nothing new on Reynolds; the preliminary autopsy report on Ricardo is back." 

Jim stiffened; somehow he knew he wasn't going to like this. 

Simon rummaged around on his desk, then held up a piece of paper. He read, "Immediate cause of death was massive blood loss due to a multitude of deep, irregular wounds. Identity of weapon unknown at this time, but appears to have been a dull cutting tool." 

Ellison was taken aback. "Dull weapon? But that's not possible, Simon. We both saw the body; Ricardo was cut to pieces! Are you sure Dan didn't mean an ax or something like that?" 

Banks threw the paper back onto his desk. "I had the very same reaction," he growled. "First thing I did after reading that report was to call Dan. He said, and I quote, `The edges of the gashes and lacerations rule out a sharp object as they are too bruised and irregular; the tissues did not part cleanly or evenly.' End quote." 

"Jesus." Ellison felt sick. "You mean the twisted bastard took something like a, a butter knife and just gouged at Ricardo until he'd made those cuts?" Remembering the condition of the officer's body, Jim felt his stomach roll. 

From the look on his face, Banks was also having stomach problems. "Something like that. This time, the perp didn't care whether he hit a major artery or organ; he just slashed away." 

"Did Serena come up with anything?" 

"Not much." Banks sighed. "The only fingerprints on the chair he was using were Ricardo's. Lots of shoe impressions, both there and on the stage; they're useless, though. That corridor has all the dressing rooms on it, and the stage had just held a two hour magic show. No fibers, no foreign fluids." 

Jim swore softly under his breath. "Just like Reynolds, nothing on nothing. This bastard is smart." 

"But we're smarter," declared Banks coldly. "We're going to find him. Then I will personally lock the cell door behind that twisted son of a bitch." 

Jim toasted that sentiment with his coffee mug. 

Simon leveled a determined stare at him. "You were there, backstage, for over half an hour before the show began. I want you to write up a report of all the conversations you overheard." 

Ellison gave a pained grimace at the thought of all the typing. 

Seeing that, Banks held up a placating hand and said, "I know you said you heard nothing unusual, and I believe that. But maybe someone said something that didn't seem strange at the time, but could be incriminating on closer reflection." 

Jim still didn't think much of the idea; he sourly considered it a total waste of his time and effort, but he'd received his orders. Getting to his feet, he drank down the last of his coffee. Handing the mug back to Banks, he muttered, "I'll get right on that, Captain." 

Though he felt like slamming the door behind him, Ellison restrained his childish impulse and, instead, closed it gently. 

<<<>>>

Wearily, Jim leaned back and massaged a neck stiff from over two hours of typing. The act of inputting the conversations into the computer had brought each and every one into clear recall; he was more convinced than ever that this report was a futile exercise. There had been no mention, in any fashion, of Ricardo, and only one passing remark about the sword cabinet. As one of the male assistants, Tran, had entered the backstage area, he had commented to Tanisha DeNovo "At least there's one less bloody heavy box to push around tonight." That had been the full extent of any conversation concerning anything other than the upcoming performance or the state of the theater's electrical system. 

He was still rubbing at his neck and glaring at the computer monitor when he heard Banks' office door open and his name called. Looking up, Ellison saw Banks standing in the door, gesturing at him. He rose, and as he reached the other man, Simon said, "We've got some info back on Deal. The fax just came through." 

The detective's eyes gleamed. "Maybe now we can get somewhere." 

To his dismay, Banks shook his head. "You can read it for yourself, but it's mighty damn slim." 

Both men moved into the office. As Jim sank onto the chair in front of the desk, Banks handed him a piece of paper. Then he, too, sat. 

Ellison rapidly scanned the report, reading aloud. "Vincent Robert Deal, born August 29, 1942 to Robert Daniel Deal and Lois May Vaughn Deal. Two younger brothers and a younger sister. Family big in banking in Boston area, owner of Northeast Financial Trust since bank established 1837. Elementary and high school records exemplary. Enrolled in Harvard, Fall 1961, studied banking law and finance. Whoa, what a surprise," grumbled Ellison in a sarcastic aside. "Hmm this sounds more promising. Dropped out of Harvard Spring 1963 and headed west to `find himself'. Lived in various west coast communes March 1963 to October 1969; arrested three times for protests involving Vietnam, and twice for anti-nuclear demonstrations. No formal charges were filed in any incident. October 1969, suddenly popped up on parents' doorstep and announced he'd repented his wicked ways. Went back to Harvard and finished both degrees. Taken into the family bank upon graduation and rose steadily; took over as bank president when his father retired in May 1985. Retired himself January 27, 1996. As far is known, never married, no children." 

Jim lowered the paper and sighed. "You're right, Simon. This doesn't say all that much." 

"Yeah," agreed Banks. "Pretty stereotypical, isn't it? Kid born into a rich family rebels once he hits college, but later sees the error of his ways and becomes a success. The only odd thing I can see," the leather executive chair gave a slight squeak as he leaned forward, "is the fact that a successful Boston banker has turned up in Cascade as the manager of a wandering magician. Deal was only fifty-three when he retired; that's mighty damn young to be quitting the banking business." 

"Yeah, it is." Ellison was frowning at the paper. "This doesn't give a reason for the retirement, either. It couldn't have been because of any scandal or legal wrongdoing; that would've been included in the report. So he left three years ago for unknown personal reasons." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Blair first started touring three years ago...could that be the reason?" 

"But how did he and the kid hook up?" queried Banks irritably. "I mean, Sandburg couldn't have just walked into the damn bank and asked Deal to be his manager! Why did he pick Deal in the first place? It's not as though the guy had any experience in managing a performer." 

"Blair told his assistants that he and Deal have been friends for a long time; I believe `forever' was the term he used." 

"So he and Deal go way back," mused Banks, fingers tapping idly on his desk. "Maybe the report on Sandburg will fill in the blanks. Hopefully, it'll get here later this afternoon." He looked at his detective with narrowed eyes. "You've got that look on your face, Jim. What do you know that I don't?" 

"Last night before the show, Deal became very upset when Blair and I made plans for a late dinner. It was like he didn't want me to be alone with Blair. He has a key to the storage room, doesn't he? Early Saturday morning, after Blair had gone to bed, he could've slipped out of the suite-they have separate bedrooms and it would be easy enough to do. He had ample time to collect the girl, kill her and stash her in the cabinet. Then, he goes back to the hotel, cleans up, and takes a nap before returning to the theater to officially find the body. After last night's show, he had time and opportunity to move Ricardo's body to the stage. The assistants were in their dressing rooms, the backstage theater personnel had already left and Blair and I were in his dressing room. Deal is the only one without a solid alibi." 

"You forget, Sandburg vouches for Deal's presence at the hotel yesterday from four-thirty till just after seven, when they left for the theater together. How could he have murdered Ricardo?" 

Ellison hesitated slightly. 

"Jim?" prompted Banks. 

Giving a sigh, Ellison shrugged. "I think Blair might be covering for him." 

"What makes you think that? Maybe it's the other way around, Deal is protecting Sandburg." Banks was careful not to let his concern show; he didn't like the way Ellison was constantly referring to Sandburg by his given name. It was never a good idea for a cop to be on a first name basis with a murder suspect. What was worse, Banks was certain that Ellison wasn't even aware he was doing so. 

"Blair isn't involved," insisted Ellison, shaking his head firmly. "This morning, while we were having coffee, I asked him point-blank if he'd killed Reynolds and Ricardo. He completely denied it, and his heart rate backed him up. He wasn't lying." 

Banks' concern changed to worry. "I thought you couldn't hear his heart beat?" 

"Umm, I couldn't at first." Jim was determined not to squirm in his chair like a scolded schoolboy. "But I can now." He wasn't going to tell Banks that the heart beat had only become clear to him after a fugue state; he also wasn't going to mention that he was continuing to hear it, even when Sandburg was nowhere in the vicinity. The steady cadence had provided the soothing backdrop for an extremely restful sleep once he'd gotten back to the loft that morning. 

The police captain eyed him dubiously. It was obvious there was more to the sudden turnaround than Ellison was telling him. He was just opening his mouth to demand a full explanation when the detective tilted his head and frowned. 

Accustomed to the sight of Ellison using his enhanced hearing, Banks gave him a few minutes to identify the sound before asking, "What is it?" 

The big cop was already on his feet and moving toward the door. "It's Blair. He's here, and he's upset." Flinging open the office door, Ellison barged into the bullpen. 

His abrupt entrance startled everyone except Sandburg; he gave a relieved sigh and, abandoning Rafe, rushed over to the senior detective. "I can't find Vince anywhere!" 

"Steady there, Chief," murmured Ellison. He put both hands on the wide shoulders and gave a reassuring squeeze. "Take a couple of deep breaths and calm down; you're going to give yourself a coronary if your heart keeps beating that fast." Engrossed in calming Sandburg, he was unaware of what he'd just said. "That's it, that's it," he encouraged softly. When the magician's heart beat had slowed to a just-slightly-faster-than-normal rate, he said, "Now, tell me what's wrong." 

Even as frantic as he was, Blair still felt himself relaxing now that Ellison was near. _Jim will find Vince._ He didn't question his faith in Ellison. Sandburg only knew, with a serene assurance, that once he'd told the cop about Vince's disappearance, Ellison would make things right. 

He took another deep breath before saying, more or less calmly, "Vince is missing. He isn't at the hotel or the theater, and he's not answering his cell phone." 

Ellison frowned at the news. Turning to look at his captain, who was standing in his office doorway, he said, "This could be serious, sir. We'd better start looking for him." 

Banks, however, didn't appear to find the news as alarming. "Let's discuss this first, shall we?" He gestured for the detective to bring Sandburg into his office. 

Once both men were inside, he shut the door and waited until Ellison had seated the illusionist before saying, "I'm not trying to downplay your concern, Mr. Sandburg, but could it be possible that you're over-reacting in view of recent events? The last two days have been extremely stressful; maybe Mr. Deal simply went for a walk." 

"In _this_ weather?" Sandburg retorted, pointing out the window at the hard, driving rain. "Vince hates water in his face; he almost drowned when he was six. Hell, he jokes that he has to use an umbrella just to take a shower!" 

The cops exchanged a sheepish look; the Cascade natives were so used to the rain, they hadn't noticed the weather conditions. 

"Easy, Chief," soothed Ellison, giving Sandburg's left shoulder another squeeze. "We'll find him." 

Banks pretended he hadn't noticed the squeeze, nor the fact that Sandburg had visibly relaxed under the touch. 

"Look, Captain, I know the police can't believe everything they're told." Blair strove for a reasonable tone. "But, I assure you, I'm not panicking here. When I got back to the hotel this morning, Vince and I talked a little. I went to bed, and I got the impression that he, too, was going to bed. When I got up a little after three, he wasn't in the lounge. He still wasn't around after I took a shower. I checked his bedroom-his bed was rumpled and unmade, like he'd just crawled out of it. I called the hotel desk; they said no one had seen him go out but I phoned the theater, anyway. A custodian answered and told me that he and his crew were the only ones there. Then I tried Vince's cell; I rang it four times. The last time, I let the damn thing ring for ten minutes. I tell you, this isn't like him!" Despite his best efforts, Blair's voice rose at the end. 

"All right, all right." Seeing Sandburg's pleading expression, Banks caved in. "Well, you heard the man, Detective. We have a missing person to locate." 

"Yes, sir." Once Blair had regained his feet, Ellison put a hand in the small of his back to Guide him out of the office. 

Banks hadn't missed that gesture, either. He frowned and added, "Oh, Jim, one thing before you go." 

Ellison turned back to his captain. 

"I almost forgot, Serena needs you to stop by Forensics and sign off on the chain of custody for the sword cabinet. You can do that on your way out." 

"Yes, sir," acknowledged Ellison. 

Stopping in the bullpen only long enough for Ellison to grab his jacket, the two men then headed for the elevator. Aware of the anxious tension in the shorter man, Jim said confidently, "Don't worry, Chief. He probably just went out and left his cell phone somewhere. Remember, he forgot his organizer a couple of times at the theater." 

"If that's the case, I'll kill him myself," Blair declared, exasperated. The elevator arrived and they boarded the car. As Ellison was pushing the button for the third floor, the magician continued, "He knows I can't stop myself from worrying! I'm Jewish; it's in my genes. Especially now." Sandburg caught himself and closed his mouth with a snap. He gave the cop a surreptitious look out of the corner of his eye. 

"Why especially now?" 

Sandburg cursed at the soft inquiry. *Watch what the hell you're saying, you fucking idiot!* "Especially now because of the murders," he answered hastily. _It's not entirely a lie._ "I mean, you never know what the killer is going to do next." 

"That's true enough," Ellison agreed blandly. He was perfectly aware that, while Blair was not exactly lying to him, neither was the illusionist giving him the complete truth. Jim wasn't worried; he had great faith in his ability to pull the truth from the most expert of liars and Sandburg was hardly one of those. 

The elevator dinged to indicate they'd reached their floor and the doors slid smoothly open. One step into the corridor and Ellison froze. 

"Wait here," he commanded roughly, arm outstretched to hold the other man in place. 

"What is it?" 

Now that he was concentrating, the smell was even more apparent. Ellison's stomach clenched. This isn't good, he thought grimly. This is not good at all. 

"Jim?" 

"I smell blood; lots of it." It never occurred to Ellison that he should censor what he was saying. Telling Blair his observations felt natural and right. 

Sandburg gulped, paling. "Aren't we near the Forensics place?" he asked nervously. "They have the sword cabinet there; maybe that's what you're picking up." 

Ellison shook his head. "This is fresh blood." He scented the air again. "But it is coming from the Forensic cold storage room." The cop turned and fixed the younger man with a stern look. "Stay here, Chief, while I check it out." As he was speaking, he pulled out his gun. 

Blair gave another gulp at sight of the drawn weapon. He reached out a quick hand and grabbed the cop's forearm. "You be damn careful, you hear me?" His anxiety level was at an all-time high. 

Aware of that fact, Ellison patiently explained, "I don't hear anyone. The gun is just a precaution." 

"Whatever." Sandburg didn't appear all that reassured. "Just you watch yourself in there. I prefer you just the way you are...unperforated." 

Giving a snort at that statement, Ellison slowly moved down the hallway. The first door was the cold storage area for Forensics, and it was from there the odor was emanating. As silently as a hunting cat, he approached the door and cautiously tried the knob; it turned easily under his hand. Slowly, carefully, he pushed the door open until he had made enough space to slip through. After glancing back to ensure Sandburg was still in a place of relative safety should something untoward happen, the cop squeezed through the opening. 

Gun immediately brought to bear, Ellison swiftly scanned the small room. Luckily, there was very little clutter present, with no large pieces of furniture or closets which could be used for concealment. It was the work of seconds for him to ascertain that he was alone and that there was no immediate threat present. Lowering his gun, he walked over to a large, tarpaulin-covered object in the far corner. The closer he got to it, the more overpowering the smell of blood. Gritting his teeth, he reached out and, grabbing the tarp, quickly yanked it off. 

Ellison came face to face with Vince Deal's death stare. 

The horribly mutilated remains had been stuffed inside the already gory sword cabinet. The body was kept upright by virtue of three swords thrust through the box and into the cold flesh. Dried blood from the earlier murder mixed uneasily with Deal's clotted fluid on the swords and the inside of the cabinet. Deal's face was pressed up against the clear plastic wall; the brown eyes were wide and staring; a look of terror forever trapped within them. 

"NO!" 

The anguished scream came from behind the cop. He whirled, and even with his excellent reflexes, was barely able to stop Sandburg as the illusionist flew past him. The shorter man immediately began kicking and clawing in a frenzied attempt to get free. 

"No, let me go! Let me go, damn it!" The husky voice was hoarse and breathless. "I've got to get him out of there! He's hurt...I've got to get him out of there! Fuck you, let me go!" 

Locking both arms around Sandburg's chest, effectively pinning Blair's wildly flailing arms to his sides, Ellison bodily lifted him off his feet. He hauled the out-of-control illusionist back into the corridor. 

"Chief, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he panted. For all his smaller stature, Sandburg was proving one hell of a wildcat to restrain. "There's nothing we can do for him. I'm sorry, Chief, but there's nothing we can do." 

Abruptly, all the fight oozed out of Sandburg and he sagged. If Ellison hadn't been holding him so tightly, the magician would've hit the floor. For long minutes there was only the sound of harsh breathing, then a small voice came. "Jim?" 

Chest aching at the lost sound, Ellison responded softly, "Yeah?" He shifted his grip from one of restraint to one of comfort. 

"W-We have to get Vince out of there, man. He's hurt; h-he needs a doctor." 

Blair's bewildered pain brought an unexpected rush of stinging tears to Jim's eyes. Blinking furiously, he said gently, "There's nothing a doctor could do for him, Chief." 

Sandburg's chest rose in a huge, shuddering gasp. "Jim?" 

"Yeah?" 

"He's...he's dead, isn't he? Vince is d-dead." 

Ellison had to force the words past the large boulder in his throat. "Yeah, Chief; he's dead. I'm sorry, so very, very sorry." 

"Oh, god." It was a cry of both denial and acceptance. 

Sandburg suddenly turned and startled the cop by burrowing against him, wrapping both arms around Ellison's back. Automatically pulling the shorter man closer, Ellison was amazed to discover, in spite of the reason for the embrace, how right it felt to hold Blair in this way. Not questioning his right to do so, he threaded his fingers into the mass of chestnut curls, tenderly holding the illusionist's head to his left shoulder. The two men stayed that way for an uncounted length of time. 

All too soon, Ellison's sense of duty raised its responsibility-scarred head and started nagging at him. The cop ignored it for as long as he could but, inevitably, had to give in. "Chief?" he whispered, continuing to stroke his fingers through the silky curls. 

For a moment, he thought Blair hadn't heard him, then a soft "Yes, Jim?" floated up from his shoulder. 

"Don't take this wrong, okay? But I've got to notify Simon about this, get the ball rolling." 

Fatalistically, Ellison prepared himself for Blair's furious retreat. He braced himself to meet the biting condemnation about his total lack of sensitivity; his inability to identify with natural, human emotion. The cop was wearily familiar with the bitter listing of his faults; for the last few months of his marriage, it had been his ex-wife's favorite daily monologue. 

Ellison was stunned when Blair merely gave a regretful sigh and, reluctantly, stepped slightly away from him. 

Relegating duty to the back of his mind for a few more moments, Jim gently brushed long hair out of the grieving face. Holding the tear-filled azure eyes with his own, he asked quietly, "Are you okay?" 

Blair gave a crooked smile. "No." 

Honored that Sandburg hadn't put him off with a socially correct lie, Jim leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to the wide forehead. Lips still touching the warm, spicy skin, he murmured, "I know how much Vince meant to you, Chief. I sincerely wish this had never happened." 

"I know you do, Jim. Thank you." For a while longer, Blair remained close, then he drew back. He lifted his hand and ran a gentle caress down Ellison's right cheek. Though his eyes were still red and swollen, the small smile was real this time. Taking a deep breath, he said, "You'd better call Captain Banks. I'll be right over here." With those words, Sandburg walked over and propped himself against a corridor wall. 

Grimacing, Ellison pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and hit a number on his speed dial. "Simon, it's Jim," he reported when the phone was answered. "I've found Deal." 

<<<>>>

The sharp ring of the phone pierced the peaceful stillness of Ellison's loft. Not wanting the noise to disturb the man dozing restlessly on his sofa, Jim made a jump for the instrument and answered it before it could ring again. 

"Ellison," he snapped into the phone. 

"It's me." 

"Oh, hey, Simon." Glad that his phone was a portable, Ellison walked into his spare room. "What do we know?" 

"The autopsy's back." 

_Oh, god...Simon sounds rough._ Five minutes later, after listening to Dan Wolf's findings, Jim was glad he hadn't had a chance to eat anything that evening. His usual cast-iron stomach seemed to have deserted him. After Banks had finished reading the report, silence fell for several minutes. 

"I don't suppose Forensics found anything useful," Jim queried morosely. 

"You guessed right," said Banks, his tone echoing Ellison's pessimism. "This bastard is like no killer I've ever come across, Jim. He kidnaps two people out of locked rooms and spirits away a veteran cop and no one sees or hears anything! No signs of struggle at any scene. There's no forensic evidence; he leaves no hair, tissue or fiber samples, no fingerprints. The locks at the scenes are never tampered with; we have no way of knowing how he got into the locked house and hotel suite or how he subdued a trained police officer. The only information we do have on him is that he's extraordinarily vicious and loves to torture his victims." 

A headache threatened behind Jim's eyes. Rubbing at them, he promised, "We'll get him, Simon. It's only a matter of time; sooner or later, the bastard will fuck up and we'll have him dead to rights." He prayed he sounded more confident than he felt. 

"I know." A gusting sigh came down the phone line. "We just need it to be sooner, rather than later, Jim. Both the police commissioner and the mayor are starting to get real antsy. I don't know how many times he's called those two, but Governor Reynolds has just hung up from his fifth phone conversation with me since Saturday morning." 

"What the hell do they expect?" growled Ellison in frustration. "Miracles?" 

More experienced than his detective when it came to dealing with elected officials, Banks was cynically aware that, yes, most politicians did expect just that. *There's just something about being voted into office that destroys a person's common sense*, he mused philosophically. 

The police captain grunted and changed the subject. "How's Sandburg managing?" 

"He's sacked out on the sofa. I wouldn't say he's sleeping, but at least he's resting." It was Ellison's turn to sigh heavily. "Deal's death hit him hard, Simon. It took forever for him to stop shaking." 

"I guess this shoots down your theory about Deal being our killer." 

"That it does." Jim grimaced. "It's back to square one." 

"You sound exhausted," observed Banks. "Why don't you sleep in tomorrow, come in around eleven, instead of your usual time? God knows we don't have anything hot cooking on this damn case. By that time, Dan and Forensics should have their final reports done and you can go over them." He had his arguments prepared, knowing how tenacious and obdurate Ellison could be when he had his teeth in a case. 

"I think I'll take you up on that offer. I don't want to leave Blair by himself any longer than absolutely necessary." 

There was dead silence from Banks' end of the line. Ellison frowned. "Simon, you still there?" 

"Y-Yeah. I was just refilling my coffee mug." Banks hoped he didn't sound as stunned as he felt. Disregarding the unsettled feeling in his stomach from Ellison's uncharacteristic behavior, he stated, "Okay, then. See you in the morning, Jim." 

"Thanks, Simon. See you in the morning." 

Hanging up, Ellison left his spare room. Placing the phone back in its cradle, he glanced at the clock in the kitchen as he went over to check on his guest. It was after ten o'clock. 

The illusionist was still stretched out; the spare blanket Ellison had draped over him was pushed down to his waist. To the cop's dismay, two blood-shot eyes met his over the soft back. Coming around the piece of furniture, Jim sat down on the wooden coffee table. 

"How are you doing, Chief?" he asked quietly. 

Blair gave a twisted smile. "I'm not sure." He threw the blanket completely off and swung his legs around so he could sit up. Tucking a strand of hair behind his right ear, Blair said, "Thanks for letting me bunk here; I'll try not to be a bother." 

Desperately wishing there was some way he could restore Sandburg's usual bounce and sparkle, Ellison shook his head. "You're no bother, Chief. As I told you at the station, I'm more than happy with you staying here; I'd be worried sick if you were in that suite all alone while this bastard is still loose. I just wish you were here under happier circumstances." 

The dark eyes glittered but no tears fell. "So do I, man, so do I." Looking around a little helplessly, he said, "Umm, could I use your bathroom?" 

"Sure," answered Jim promptly. "It's at the end of the hall. If you want to wash up, there's plenty of towels in the cupboard." 

Blair's smile was a little less forced. "That sounds like a fantastic idea. Thanks." He got to his feet and headed down the small hallway. 

"You want a beer?" Jim called after him. "Or would you prefer coffee?" 

"A beer would be great, thanks." 

As the bathroom door closed behind the magician, Ellison heaved himself to his own feet and went into the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, he pulled out two bottles of beer and opened them. Busying himself with tidying an already immaculate kitchen, Ellison deliberately refused to let himself monitor Sandburg. If Blair felt he needed a few minutes alone, then that's what he was going to get. He didn't need a nosy cop listening in while he tried to pull himself together after losing his best friend. 

To Ellison' s unspoken relief, only a couple of minutes passed before Sandburg emerged from the bathroom. The blue eyes didn't show any indication that he'd been crying. There was a faint aroma of soap and water about the compact body; it appeared Blair had taken him up on his offer of a wash. 

Jim held out a bottle of beer. 

"Thanks, man." Blair took a deep swallow. "God, I needed that." 

"Always happy to oblige, Chief," responded Ellison. He took a drink from his own, then suggested, "Why don't we go sit down? Unless you're hungry? I could fix us some sandwiches and soup, or we could call for takeout ?" 

"No, thanks." Blair shook his head. "I'm not hungry; but don't let me stop you." 

"To be perfectly frank," confessed Ellison, leading the way back over to the living room, "I'm not all that hungry, myself." 

Waiting until Sandburg had seated himself on the sofa, Ellison sank into the yellow club chair positioned diagonally across from it. 

"Uh, Jim?" 

"Yeah, Chief?" 

Blair was playing with the label on his bottle. Eyes on the floor, he hesitantly asked, "Was that Captain Banks on the phone earlier?" 

Ellison knew what was coming and his jaw clenched. "Yeah." 

"Did he say...do they know what killed Vince?" The younger man kept his eyes firmly down. 

Trying to stall, Ellison took an unwanted swallow of beer. The internal debate lasted only seconds. He has a right to know the truth. Just maybe _not_ the whole truth. 

"Are you sure you really want to know, Chief?" 

The illusionist immediately met his gaze. While there was trepidation present in the smoky blue eyes, there was also a strong determination. "Yeah, I do." 

"All right." Leaning forward, Jim placed his beer bottle on a coaster on the coffee table. "The coroner has ruled the official cause of death as heart failure brought on by severe trauma." *Please, God, he prayed, don't let him ask me what sort of trauma. Blair doesn't need to know that his best friend's penis and testicles were hacked off by what appears to have been rusty garden shears.* 

"H-Heart failure?" stuttered Sandburg. He gaped at Ellison for a few moments, then a look of horrendous relief flooded his face. "But...but the wounds, they were every where and there was so much blood!" It was clear he wanted to accept what he was being told, but was afraid to believe the news. 

"Yes, there was," agreed Jim. "I'm not trying to snow you, Chief; some of those wounds were pretty deep and they were inflicted while he was alive. But he didn't lose enough blood from those to kill him. The nastiest of the wounds you saw occurred after death." 

"So his heart just gave out? How is that possible? He was as strong as a horse!" 

"Pain and fear put the human body under severe stress," explained Ellison. God knows, there's nothing more agonizing or terrifying than having your cock and balls slowly snipped off, he added to himself. Out loud, he continued, "He wasn't old, but he was in his mid-fifties. His heart just couldn't take the shock." 

Blair placed his own beer on the coffee table with a less than steady hand. Leaning back against the sofa, he closed his eyes. When he re-opened them moments later, a single tear slipped down his cheek. "Thanks, man," he said huskily. "I know it's awful of me, but I'm glad his heart gave out." 

"It's not awful, Chief," refuted Jim instantly. He fixed the younger man with a compelling gaze, willing the illusionist to believe what he was saying. "There's nothing wrong with being glad your best friend died a quick death, versus having to live for who knows how long being horribly tortured. It's only human; cut yourself some slack." 

"Only human." echoed Sandburg, a strange look on his face. 

To Jim's horror, more tears fell. Muttering a garbled protest, he sprang out of his chair and, dropping down next to Sandburg, pulled him into a firm embrace. Instantly, Blair turned to him, burying his face in the strong chest. His shoulders started to shake. 

"I never should've let him come with me." Sandburg's voice was thick with tears. Breathing unevenly, he insisted, "This never would have happened if he'd hadn't been with me." 

"Chief, don't do this to yourself," argued Ellison. He tenderly stroked the curly head. "You didn't force Vince to be with you. He was an adult; he made his own decisions. None of this is your fault, and somehow, I think Vince would be pretty pissed at you for feeling this way." 

A watery snort came from his chest region and the hands clenched desperately in his shirt slightly loosened their grip. "Yeah, he would," admitted Blair. 

"Then, don't," Ellison said firmly. "Mourn him--you've got all the right in the world to do that--but don't blame yourself for a lunatic's actions." 

"Yes, sir." Blair gave a shaky laugh. "You've got this whole giving orders thing down pretty good. It must be a leftover from when you were in the army." 

Mentally, physically and emotionally exhausted, it took Blair several long seconds to realize that the man next to him had gone rigid. "Jim?" he began tentatively, then he heard a mental echo of his words and he screwed his eyes shut in abrupt despair. 

Large hands took him roughly by the shoulders and pushed him back. "How the hell did you know I'd been in the army?" demanded Ellison harshly. 

Taking in the ashen, set face and the cold eyes glaring at him in furious suspicion, Blair suddenly felt bereft and more than a little afraid. While he had never made the mistake of underestimating Ellison, only now did he completely appreciate the truth of what he'd overheard from the other cops around the theater. At this moment, Ellison appeared fully capable of killing him with his bare hands. 

More than a little angry at himself for being afraid, Blair snapped, "Because I'm not illiterate, all right? I read magazines, especially if there's a fucking gorgeous soldier on the cover!" He tore away from the restraining hold. As he was climbing to his feet, a hand shot out and frantically grabbed his forearm. Blair looked stonily at the cop. 

"Chief, I..." Words failed Ellison and he swallowed audibly. There was a shocking look of vulnerability, and surprisingly, shame in the cornflower blue eyes. 

All the anger drained out of Sandburg. Sinking back down onto the sofa, he allowed an icy hand to grip one of his and hold on tightly. 

"I'm sorry, man," he apologized softly. "I should've told you right away that I recognized you." 

"You've done nothing to apologize for, Chief," denied Jim quickly. He swallowed again, then gave a weak grin. "Me, however. It's been eight years; I'd forgotten about that damn magazine article," he added abruptly. "I didn't want to be reminded of the filthy affair, so I just forgot about it." 

"Filthy?" repeated Sandburg, bewildered. "But, Jim-the article said you were a hero! You single-handedly took out a whole camp of cocaine smugglers." 

"Hero!" Ellison looked as if he wanted to be sick. "I'm no hero, Chief; far from it. Call me a fucking murderer, that's closer to the truth." 

Unable to understand Ellison's self-hatred, Blair was nevertheless determined to get to the bottom of the issue. "What happened, Jim? Why would you call yourself a murderer?" 

Releasing Blair's hand, Ellison stood and stalked away a few steps. Stopping, he ran both hands over his pale face, wiping away the cold sweat. "I can't tell you, Chief," he said raggedly. "I took an oath, as an officer in the United States Army and as a Ranger. God knows, my commanders don't deserve it after that fiasco, but I can't break my oath. Please understand that." Begging eyes locked on Sandburg's face. 

"All right." 

A flood of shocking relief swept over Ellison, making him slightly dizzy. 

"Is there _anything_ you're allowed to tell me?" Sandburg inquired quietly. "Because there is no way I will ever believe that you would--of your own, free will--hurt an innocent person, let alone kill them. No one can make me believe that." 

Ellison took a deep breath, then released it. "All I can say, Chief, is to never believe everything your government tells you. My team and I were told those men were cocaine smugglers, responsible for the deaths of three DEA agents. It wasn't until I got back from Peru that I discovered differently. By then, a thick coat of white-wash had been slapped on the whole damn affair, and I couldn't do anything about it." 

Silently, Sandburg patted the cushion beside him. Feeling decidedly shaky in the knees, Ellison dropped back onto the sofa. He was grateful beyond measure when Blair immediately leaned against him, wrapping both of his hands around one of the cop's. Jim glanced over at the younger man and saw only a calm willingness to listen. 

Taking another deep breath, Ellison mumbled, "I lost my entire team on that mission. When I got home and realized the truth. I couldn't resign my commission quick enough." 

"So you came back to Cascade and became a cop," observed Blair. "What made you decide to return? From what you've told me about your family, I know they couldn't have been the reason." 

"I really can't give you a specific reason, Chief. It just felt right." Ellison had recovered enough to give a half-grin. "Maybe it was Fate." 

"Fate, huh?" An enigmatic smile graced the full lips for a moment before it vanished. Frowning suddenly, Sandburg tugged on the hand in his. "C'mere, man. You're too far away." 

"If I were any closer, you'd be wearing me." Ellison took the hint, however, and obligingly wrapped an arm around the other man's shoulders. A synapse sparked and he asked curiously, "Do you mind me being close, holding you?" 

"Do I look as though I mind?" retorted Sandburg; one hand was idly rubbing up and down Ellison's left thigh. 

"It's just that I know you don't like to have people get too close to you, or to touch you," Jim said, drifting with the soothing touch and the simple pleasure of holding Sandburg. 

The hand on his thigh froze. 

Slightly concerned, Ellison looked into the magician's suddenly guarded face. "Chief, what is it? Did I say something wrong?" 

"Wrong? No, Jim; you didn't say anything wrong." Belatedly, Blair resumed his caresses. Voice deliberately casual, he queried, "Where did you get the notion that I don't like being touched or being close to people?" 

Ellison was beginning to realize that he had inadvertently stepped on a sore spot. _First Blair, now me_ , he thought ruefully. "When I was talking to your troop Saturday afternoon, they mentioned that you never seemed to like anyone to get too physically close to you and that they never saw anyone touch you. That night, as I watched you and Vince come up the hallway, I noticed even he left a great deal of space between you two." He held his breath, hoping against hope that he hadn't just ruined everything. God knew he was hopelessly inept at this personal relationship stuff. 

Mystified, but happy, Ellison felt the magician relax. 

"Oh, that." Sandburg fell silent for a long moment, then realizing he needed to explain further, he said, "That's just a quirk of mine, Jim. Don't make too much of it, okay?" 

"A quirk, huh?" Jim gazed at him in consideration. Blair's head was downbent, his attention seemingly focused on what his hand was doing. The long curls hid his face. "I suppose it's just another quirk that you don't like to be photographed?" 

"You got it." 

Jim reached over with his right hand and laid it on top of Sandburg's, stopping the caressing. Remembering that the illusionist had said he didn't seem to be able to lie to the cop, he inquired, "Have you always had these quirks, Chief?" 

It was obvious from Blair's tense posture that he was unhappy with that question. "No," he said finally. 

There had been no emotion in the husky voice. A sickening theory was growing in the cop's speeding mind. Keeping his own voice level, he asked softly, "Chief, did something happen to you to cause these quirks?" 

A long silence, then, "Yeah." 

Even with his enhanced hearing, Ellison had a hard time understanding the low voice. Gritting his back teeth, he questioned, "Did someone hurt you, Blair?" 

The hand under his tightened. Ellison's sensitive hearing caught the rapid acceleration of the sturdy heart beat. When it became obvious that Blair was not going to answer, Jim repeated gently, "Blair, did someone hurt you?" 

Long, strained minutes later, Sandburg said uncomfortably, "I suppose you could call it that." If he'd been privy to the cop's thoughts, the illusionist would have been even more disquieted. 

Letting go of Sandburg's hand, Jim lightly grasped the square chin and lifted Blair's face up so he could see it. Wary eyes met his. 

"Don't you think you should talk about it?" 

"No." 

Unable to argue with that blunt statement, Ellison conceded, "All right, then." *Some day, you're going to tell me everything, Chief; and I will personally hunt down the one who hurt you so badly and kill him. Or her.* Wanting Blair to relax again, Jim joked, "Remember, you're not the only one with odd behavior, Chief. I've already told you that my mother walked out because she couldn't deal with my eccentricities." 

Still off balance, Blair shot back without thinking. "Yeah, but your `eccentricities' are genetic." 

Both men stiffened at the same time. 

Sandburg recovered first. "Shit, I've done it again," he groaned, dropping his head back against the couch. 

Ellison closed his eyes and counted to ten. When he felt he had himself under sufficient control, he asked, "Chief, what the hell did you mean by that?" His voice was eerily calm. 

Knowing that he had well and truly put his foot in his mouth this time, Blair mumbled, "Your enhanced senses...they're genetic, not learned behavior." 

When five minutes had passed and still Ellison had not spoken, Blair discovered the courage to look at the other man. The cop was staring at him; his face was stony, but his eyes were a curious amalgam of anger and fear. 

"Jim?" 

"How the hell do you know about that?" Ellison had finally caught his mental breath. This is it; Blair's really going to walk out now. Frantically trying to defend himself against the pain he was certain was coming, he attacked furiously, "You didn't read that in any fucking magazine!" 

Sandburg let the raging nova wash over him. "No one had to tell me, Jim. I guessed for myself. You didn't exactly try to hide it from me, now did you?" 

Taken aback, Ellison flushed and had to reluctantly admit the magician was right. He had almost flaunted his senses before the younger man. Heart beating madly, he tried to pull away but Sandburg wouldn't let him. 

"It's all right, Jim," crooned Blair softly. "I'm not frightened or repulsed. That's what you're expecting, isn't it?" 

Stubbornly, Ellison turned his head away. 

"Look at me, man; see for yourself," coaxed Sandburg. "Use your senses; they'll tell you if I'm lying. Come on, Jim, I know you can do this." 

Some quality in the husky voice made Ellison ache to obey. Knowing it would kill him if he found any trace of fear or revulsion, he slowly turned back to the illusionist and opened his senses. Eyes widening in stunned amazement, he took in the calm, steady cadence of Sandburg's heart; the even, unhurried passage of air in his lungs. There was no taint of fear about him; all Ellison could smell was the spicy, exotic aroma he always associated with Blair. 

"Why aren't you scared?" he blurted out. "I'm a freak, a mutant...even _Simon_ was afraid at first." 

"You're not a freak or a mutant!" Sandburg dismissed vehemently. He brought a hand up to cradle the pale face. "Who called you that?" His eyes narrowed and he guessed, "Your father?" 

Ellison could only nod numbly. He was struck speechless by the bottomless look of tenderness and understanding on Sandburg's face. 

"Well, you're not. You're a genetic miracle, not something to be feared." Blair held the cop's eyes with his own. He gave a mental sigh of relief when the panicked look left the clear blue eyes. 

"How do you know these things?" demanded Ellison shakily. "You sure know some weird shit for an illusionist!" 

Blair chuckled and, lowering his hand, cuddled into the muscled body. Ellison returned the embrace, tentatively at first, then with increasing confidence when it became apparent that, not only was Sandburg not resisting, he was actively enjoying it. 

"How do I know these things?" repeated Blair. "Well, I went to college, and one of the things I studied was anthropology. About a hundred or so years ago, a famous anthropologist made a study of people like you. You're a Sentinel, Jim and that's something to take pride in." 

"A Sentinel." Ellison tried the word on his tongue. For some reason, he liked it. "You're saying there are others like me?" 

"Well, at least in the last century, there were," Sandburg qualified. "Unfortunately, modern society seems to have bred the necessary traits out of the gene pool. But in the past, Jim, you would've been a village's prize possession. Tribes sometimes went to war in order to obtain a Sentinel. Just imagine, you could have seen game from miles away, heard an enemy long before they were close enough to attack, been able to use your sense of smell to determine which water source was safe to drink. The possibilities are endless, man!" 

Ellison was overwhelmed by Blair's obvious, sincere enthusiasm. He wasn't quite sure what to make of it; he wasn't used to considering his senses in such a positive light. Sure, they occasionally helped him catch criminals, but even that function had its drawbacks as he couldn't testify in court that he had used them. To him, they were just something that set him apart from the rest of the human race; something to be kept hidden lest others think him a monster and lock him away. 

"I've never thought of it in that way," he confessed, absently stroking the soft curls. "My dad always told me if I let people see how strange I was, they would call me a freak and put me away in some institution." 

"You know, Jim, I'm glad you don't have any contact with your family." 

Taken aback by that apparent non sequitur, Ellison glanced down at the head resting on his shoulder. "Huh?" 

"Because I know I would find it very difficult to be polite to your bastard of a father." 

Ellison chuckled at the tart statement. "The old man isn't worth you getting yourself all worked up, Chief. So just calm down and give that busy little heart of yours a break. At this rate, you're going to wear it out before you're forty." 

The accommodating body in Ellison's arms stiffened. "You can hear my heart?!" 

The cop frowned. Sandburg's voice had been tight with tension. Wondering what new minefield he'd discovered, Ellison said, "I can hear everyone's heart beat. Usually, though, I have to be in the same room with the person. Yours is different; I can always hear yours, no matter how far away you might be." 

"You can _hear_ my heart beat." 

"Yeah." Suddenly, Ellison became aware of a wetness soaking into his shirt. Alarmed, he reached down and gently pried Blair's head off his shoulder. "Blair, what is it?" 

Blinking back tears, Sandburg smiled tremulously. "Nothing." 

Ellison looked unconvinced. 

"No, man, really." Blair gave a genuine smile. "I honestly don't know why I'm crying. It's just--it's sweet that you can hear my heart beat." 

"Sweet!" Ellison affected horror. "That's a hell of an insult, Chief." 

Blair's laughter at that protest slowly died away. The two men locked gazes; the air around them grew hushed and expectant. 

"I want to kiss you," Ellison confessed hoarsely. It felt as though all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. Heart pounding, chest tight with hungry anticipation, he pleaded, "Let me kiss you, Chief. Please." 

"You don't have to beg, man," whispered Blair, arm reaching up to curl around the strong neck. "You don't ever have to beg." 

Groaning, Ellison bent and took the freely offered bounty. 

It was hot, it was wet, it was heaven and hell all wrapped up into one intoxicating, addictive experience. Instantly, Jim knew he had to have more of this exquisite taste; he had to always be free to sip from this well or he would wither away and die. He dove deeper and deeper into the willing mouth, determined to taste it all. His lungs burned with their need for air, but he ignored them; only the rich, sweet taste of the mouth under his mattered. Everything else was inconsequential. 

Eventually, though, his lungs insisted on having their way. Jim pulled back with a moan of loss. 

Blair knew he had never seen anyone as sexy, or as beautiful, as Ellison was at that moment. The older man's face was flushed with sublime heat, the clear blue eyes had darkened to topaz, and the sensuous mouth was reddened and swollen. "God, I could just eat you up," the illusionist growled. The lips so close to his were exerting a powerful magnetic force and he had no desire to fight it. 

This time, when they finally came back to themselves, Ellison found he was stretched out on his back along the sofa, Blair pillowed above him. 

"This has possibilities," Blair leered. There was a wicked gleam in the dark eyes. 

"Yeah, it does," Jim agreed huskily. 

Leaning in again, both men were shocked when simultaneous yawns unexpectedly erupted. Aghast, they stared at each other from inches apart. 

Blair made a strangled sound. Face turning red with his effort to control himself, Sandburg finally lost the battle with his sense of the absurd. Burying his face in Ellison's neck, he howled with laughter. "O-Oh, god," he gurgled. "Talk about spoiling the mood!" 

Ellison was no better off. Ribs aching from the strength of his laughter, he gasped out, "I've never been called boring in bed before, Chief." 

"We're not in bed," argued Sandburg, his merriment dying down to an occasional bout of giggles. He mock-complained, "That's the second time you've yawned in my face, man!" 

"You should be honored," smirked Ellison. "I don't do that to just anyone." 

That set Blair off again. When the laughter finally died away, he was having difficulty keeping his eyes open. 

Recognizing this, Jim said, "I think we'd better go to bed here, Chief." 

"Okay, man," Blair agreed sleepily. Snuggling down onto the broad chest, he slurred, "Night, Jim." 

He was asleep almost before the words were out. 

Eyeing the softly snoring bundle with a tolerant eye, Ellison decided he'd slept in worse places, for worse reasons. Closing his eyes, he rapidly followed his lover into slumber. 

<<<>>>

It was the nagging discomfort from an aching back which finally roused Ellison. Cracking one eye open, he groaned at the unexpected impact of bright sunlight on his retina. 

"What's that unidentified shining object?" muttered a sleep-coarse voice from below his chin. 

"I think it's called the sun." Jim yawned and stretched as best he could with a Sandburg-blanket still draped across his body. "I may be wrong, though, Chief...I live in Cascade." 

"I'd noticed that old Sol seems to be a rare visitor in these parts," commented Blair drowsily. "I've been in town nearly two weeks and I think this is the first really sunny day I've seen." 

"It's late April; we don't usually get sunny days until mid-July," Ellison informed him, all the while rubbing lazy circles on the illusionist's back with his hand. Sofa-sore back aside, he was much too content to willingly move. "You should see Cascade, then, Chief. The greens are so intense, you'll need sunglasses to avoid a glare headache." 

"I'll have to remember to have mine in my pocket." Blair gave a yawn of his own. 

The warm breath blowing across his neck caused the cop's toes to curl. Down, boy. It's still too soon for that. But Ellison couldn't deny the glow of pleasure at Blair's off-hand remark; the illusionist was planning on being in Cascade in mid-July. Jim would be happy with that, even if it only turned out to be a flying visit between shows. 

"What time is it?" Blair sounded marginally more awake. 

Lifting his arm off Sandburg's back, Jim squinted at his watch. "It's a little past eight." 

"Time to be moving, then." Blair levered himself off the larger body with a slight groan. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, he attempted not to notice how good the cop looked first thing in the morning. The magician couldn't seem to stop himself, however, and he leaned over to snatch a `good morning' kiss. 

Eons later, he sat back to breathe and apologized, "Sorry, probably should've brushed my teeth first. I bet your sense of taste is most acute when you wake up." 

"If I have a complaint, Chief," Ellison declared softly, "I promise you'll be the first to know." Hand snared in wayward curls, he drew the younger man back for another long, hungry kiss. 

Their mouths parted with a slow, moist sound. They remained close for several minutes, just sharing each other's breath. Finally, with obvious reluctance, Blair retreated to his perch on the rim of the sofa. 

"I really should be getting back to the hotel, Jim." 

Ellison pulled himself upright, coming to sit on the edge next to the magician. Their thighs and shoulders were pressed against each other. Neither man made a move to put more distance between them. 

"Why are you in such a hurry to go back there?" asked Jim. "I said you were welcome to stay here for as long as it took, and I meant it." 

"That means more to me than I can ever say." Blair smiled. "But I need to go back, Jim. If nothing else, I need a shower and change of clothes. I know I must majorly offend your nose." 

"You smell good, Chief, just like always. I get your point, though. If you don't mind waiting while I grab a quick shower, I'll run you over there. But," he fixed Blair with an authoritarian eye. "I'm going to be up in the suite with you the whole time. This bastard is too damn unpredictable." 

It was easier just to give in; Blair had discovered that Ellison could outstubborn a mule when it came to something he considered his duty. Besides, he was unlikely to complain about anything that let him spend more time with the cop. With an astounding rapidity, Ellison had become important to him. *Important! Why don't you admit the truth to yourself, Sandburg? Somehow, in three short days, Jim has become essential to you. Terribly so. It hurt like hell to lose Vince; I don't think my soul could survive losing Jim. I don't know how I'll do it, but I've got to keep him away from this business with Stoddard.* 

"Whatever you say, man. Do you mind if I make a pot of coffee while I wait? It's too early in the day for me to function without some heavy caffeine intake." 

Jim grinned. "Help yourself. Mi casa es su casa." 

Fifteen minutes later, Blair was sipping on his second mug of coffee as he wandered around Ellison's living room. This could be a great place, he decided. It just needs a few extra touches: some wall hangings, rugs, spreads to accent the furniture, maybe a plant or two. He stopped his perambulations in front of the balcony doors. The early morning sun was pouring through the glass, giving everything it touched a warm, golden glow. Brain in neutral, Blair stood there, admiring the view outside while he basked in the sunshine. 

Coming up silent-footed behind him, Ellison froze in momentary shock. *You need to be getting more sleep, Jimmy boy; you're starting to see things. There's no way you saw Blair actually 'absorbing' those sun beams.* 

At that moment, Blair turned, a wide grin on his face. "I can see why you took this place, man. The view alone is worth it." 

Shaking off his bemusement, Jim answered, "That's one of the main reasons I bought it." He came up beside the illusionist. "I also liked how much open space it has. I never could stand clutter. That was a constant bone of contention between Carolyn and me. She was always wanting to fill the place up with knickknacks and doodads; I preferred the bare look." 

Sandburg felt overwhelmed at the trust Ellison was exhibiting. He wondered just how long it had been since the cop had mentioned his ex-wife to anyone. 

"Not bare, man," he corrected gently. "Low stimulus." 

Ellison gave him a blank look. 

"Out there," explained Blair, waving out the windows at the city. "your senses are being constantly bombarded by stimuli of all kinds. You've adapted extremely well to life in a big city; but it still gets to you, still wears on you in ways you might not even be consciously aware. Hence, you have your home; someplace tranquil and low-key, where you can control the amount of stimuli you receive." 

Jim stared at him, flabbergasted. "I never thought of it in that way." After taking a quick glance around his austere apartment, he gave a helpless shrug. "All I know is this feels comfortable to me. Whenever Carolyn started to fill the place up with crap, I felt twitchy, like I was going to jump out of my skin." 

Blair remained silent. He could tell Ellison was gearing himself up to ask a personal question. 

Finally, the cop asked, "You don't find the place barren?" 

Sandburg frowned. While he couldn't understand what had prompted that particular question, he knew his answer was important. "This isn't barren, Jim. Maybe it's a little under-decorated for most people's tastes, but then again, most people aren't Sentinels. You need a place with lower stimuli to relax, man, or you'd overload very quickly." 

Ellison nodded thoughtfully. He gave no verbal response, but his defensive posture relaxed. 

Blair noted this. "Why would you think your home was barren?" 

"Oh, I never did. Barren was Carolyn's word for it." Ellison continued to stare out the balcony doors. "She said it mirrored my soul perfectly." 

Once again, Sandburg had to fight down anger toward Ellison's ex-wife. He didn't succeed quite so well this time. "That's fucking bullshit! What kind of a bitch was she, anyway?" 

A warm feeling spread through Ellison at Blair's evident anger on his behalf. "Don't get yourself all worked up, Chief. That happened a long time ago, and I'm not worth it." He immediately realized that the last remark had been one remark too many. Sparks fairly shot from Blair's dark eyes. 

"The hell you're not worth it!" Sandburg kept himself from shouting only by an iron act of will. "You're a caring, generous, loyal and honorable person, James Ellison; your inside is as beautiful as your outside. I've seen your soul: I found it to be gentle, tender and compassionate. So don't you ever run yourself down again, you hear me? I won't stand for it!" 

Rendered speechless by the surge of chaotic emotions within, Ellison just nodded. Then, he reached out and jerked the younger man to him, enfolding the magician in a fierce embrace. It was quite some time before he was once again capable of coherent thought. "I hear you, Chief; I hear you," he rasped, voice still laden with emotional overload. 

"Good," responded Blair, voice muffled because his mouth was busy exploring the other man's neck. He gave a last nip, then drew back. "Now that we have that settled, can we please head over to my hotel? I stink." 

Ellison doubled over in shocked laughter. Blair just watched him placidly. It was a full five minutes before the cop judged he could control his diaphragm. Straightening, he gave the man grinning mischievously at him a slight push toward the door. 

"Let's go, Chief. Your chariot awaits." 

<<<>>>

Ten o'clock that morning found the two men being ushered to a booth in a local pancake house. When Ellison had mentioned breakfast while Blair was dressing after his shower, the illusionist had turned a bit green. The older man had insisted, rightfully pointing out that Sandburg had not eaten the night before. Again, Blair had found it easier to just go along with Ellison's whims. 

Jim watched Blair peruse the menu, a slightly queasy look on his face. "Look, Chief," he said gravely. "I understand what you're going through, but you have to eat; it won't help Vince if you fall over from starvation." Ellison reached across the table and briefly touched a graceful hand. "Just eat some pancakes or waffles, all right? I don't expect you to eat something big and heavy. I bet your stomach wouldn't give you half as much trouble if you just ate more regular meals." 

A sudden memory flashed in Sandburg's eyes. He ducked his head to hide the rush of tears. 

Jim was not fooled. "What is it, Chief?" he asked quietly. 

Sandburg gave a sniff, then looked back up. He tried to smile. "Vince is...was...forever hassling me about the same thing. You sound just like an echo of him." 

"Great minds think alike," commented Ellison dryly. He gave the other man a little more time before he went on firmly, "Now, are you going to voluntarily eat something, or do I have to force-feed you?" 

Blair had recovered a little of his usual spark. "Oh, yeah?" he inquired scornfully. "You and whose army?" 

"Just me, Chief," Ellison said, smiling confidently. "You forget I was an Army Ranger; we were taught any number of arcane skills. Don't force me to demonstrate a few of them." 

Blair eyed the larger man's smirk suspiciously. Jim let his smile grow wider, but refrained from saying anything else. He watched in amused affection as Sandburg loaded a spectacular pout onto his lips and flounced back against the booth. The cop was even more amused when, after the waitress had finished taking his order, the illusionist sullenly ordered a child's portion of pancakes. 

"There! Are you satisfied now?" snapped the younger man. 

"I will be after you eat them." 

Eyes narrowed, Blair glared at him. 

Ellison gave him a tranquil smile and continued to sip at his coffee. But his growing amusement soon got the better of him. "God, Chief," he said admiringly, "I bet you were a brat when you were a kid." 

Sandburg stared at him in offended silence. Against his will, however, a chuckle slipped out. He gave in and shrugged, eyes dancing madly. "Yeah, I was," Blair confessed cheerfully, grin firmly back in place. "You would've been tearing your hair out, man." He seemed to derive a great deal of satisfaction from that thought. 

Jim just shook his head over him. A few minutes later, their meals were placed in front of them. A comfortable silence fell as both began eating. 

Twenty minutes later, Ellison was finishing his coffee. Wiping at his mouth with his napkin, he noted, "It's nearly eleven o'clock; I suppose I should be heading in to the station." 

The cop pretended not to notice that Sandburg, although he had started out slow, had completely cleared his plate. Matter of factly, Ellison transferred the two sausages remaining on his plate over to Sandburg's. He continued blandly, "Are you going to be coming in with me this morning, Chief?" 

Blair quickly finished chewing the last of Ellison's sausages. Swallowing, he shook his head and replied, "No." A shadow tried to settle on the expressive face, but the illusionist wouldn't let it. Taking a gulp of coffee for courage, he said levelly, "I need to head over to the theater and tell the troop about Vince. They wouldn't have heard the news yet. Then I'm going to stop by a funeral home and make some arrangements." 

Ellison didn't make the mistake of trying to talk his lover out of performing the difficult tasks. Instead, he nodded understandingly. "I can take you over to the theater on my way in. Will you be okay for transportation after that?" 

Sandburg was deeply grateful for Ellison's low-key, though watchful, support and the cop's off-hand attitude that seemed to take for granted that Blair was an adult and didn't need to be molly-coddled. "Yeah, I'll be fine. Don't worry, Jim." 

"Okay, then. Let's go, Chief." 

Ten minutes later, Ellison pulled up in front of the Westcott. As Blair prepared to get out, he was restrained by a hand on his arm. He glanced over at Ellison, eyebrow raised. To Sandburg's astonishment, the Sentinel slid a hand into his hair and pulled him into a meltingly tender kiss. Sitting back, Blair touched his lower lip in wonder and said hoarsely, "You...you shouldn't have done that, Jim; not here. What if someone had seen you? You could lose your job over something like that." 

Ellison just shrugged nonchalantly. "The end result was well worth the risk." 

Eyes very bright, Blair laid a palm along Jim's cheek. The kiss was short, but thorough. "The end result is most definitely worth any risk," he agreed softly. 

He got out of the Expedition and walked into the theater. The wide beam on Ellison's face stayed with him. 

<<<>>>

An hour and a half later, the illusionist stood on the sidewalk outside Crawford's Memorial Funeral Home. He took deep breaths and forced himself to stay composed. The scene at the theater when he had informed the troop of Vince's death had been acutely painful. Realistically, he expected the upcoming interview to be even worse. For Vince's sake, however, it had to be done. Squaring his shoulders and taking a last slow breath, Blair went up the stairs and let himself in through the wide oak door. 

A short, sturdily-built woman approached him immediately. "May I help you, sir?" Her voice was low and well-modulated. 

"Yes. I need." For a moment, his voice failed him. The woman did not rush him, but waited patiently until he could go on. "I need to see someone about arranging a funeral." 

There, he had got it out. 

The woman's look of professional sympathy deepened. "My sincere condolences, sir. If you will come this way, I'm sure Mr. Crawford will be pleased to assist you in any way possible." 

She led the way down a short hallway. The carpet was thick and absorbed the sound of their footfalls. Stopping before a large door marked `Jonathan Crawford Private', she knocked once, then opened the door. She ushered Blair in ahead of her. 

A tall, thin elderly man was getting to his feet from behind a huge cherry wood desk. "Yes, Ms. Hunter?" 

"This gentleman has had a loss, Mr. Crawford. He would like to make some arrangements." 

"Of course." Crawford came forward, hand extended. "How may I help you, Mr.?" 

"Sandburg, Blair Sandburg." Blair bit his lip and apologized, "I'm sorry; I don't shake hands. It's a.phobia.of mine. No offense is intended." 

"No offense is taken." Dropping his hand, Crawford escorted Sandburg over to a large chair in front of his desk. The chair was covered in rich, burgundy leather. Fighting his rising urge to flee, Blair gingerly sank into it. 

Going back around behind his desk to his chair, Crawford also sat down. Then, leaning forward, hands clasped on the deskpad, he inquired solicitously, "How may Crawford's help you in this difficult time?" 

An agonizing thirty minutes later, Blair found himself back on the pavement outside the funeral home. Breath coming fast and shallow, he consoled himself with the thought that it was over; all the arrangements had been made. He allowed himself a short laugh at the memory of the expression on Crawford's face when the illusionist had pulled a wad of bills from his jacket pocket and paid for the entire funeral in cash. It had been exorbitantly expensive, but Blair didn't care. This was for Vince; he had been worth every penny...and more. 

Sandburg drew in a shaky breath, again feeling the threatening tears. 

Out of nowhere, a light breeze danced by. Stunned, Blair stood there as it caressed his face, bringing with it a long- familiar scent and a warmth more intense than the sun. The light wind played tag with itself about the magician's body for several minutes then, with one last gentle pat on his face, it was gone. 

Two fat tears spilled over his cheeks before he could stop them. Closing his eyes, Blair raised his face to the sun and smiled. "All right, Vince; I get the hint. I should cut out the shit, already, huh?" The painful tightness easing in his chest, Sandburg gave a small laugh. "Whatever you say, Vince." 

Opening his eyes, Sandburg headed down the sidewalk. There was a bit more spring in his step than had previously been present that morning. 

I wonder if Jim is free for lunch? 

<<<>>>

Concentrating fiercely on the print-out in his hands, it took Ellison several minutes before he became aware of someone standing beside his desk. 

"Yes?" he muttered irritably as he glanced up. His eyes widened as he took in the woman standing stiffly next to his desk. 

She was tall, slender and lovely, with delicate facial bones and large blue eyes. Her bright red hair was done in the latest style; the emerald green dress was clearly designer-made, with matching shoes and clutch purse. The woman was youthfully dressed; however, microscopic lines at the corner of her eyes made the Sentinel decide she was middle-aged, but fighting it. For all her pleasant appearance, it was obvious she was not in the bullpen for agreeable reasons. Her perfectly made up face was set in lines of cool contempt and there was a lurking anger in her eyes. 

It was those snapping eyes that caused Ellison to give a mental frown. He had the oddest feeling he had encountered those eyes before, yet he knew the woman was a stranger. 

"Yes?" he repeated, striving to keep the impatience out of his voice. "Can I help you?" 

"Are you Detective James Ellison?" Her light voice was just as cool as her face. 

"I am." 

"Then I need to immediately speak with you and Captain Simon Banks." 

"Captain Banks is busy at the moment. Maybe you could just tell me what you need." 

"No." The cool tones were definite. "Both of you...now." 

"Look, lady," Ellison had reached the end of his not-very-long tether. "I don't know who the hell you think you are, but..." 

"My name is Naomi Sandburg. If I don't speak with Captain Banks and yourself right now, the next communication will be through my lawyer when he files the lawsuit." 

Taken aback, Jim studied her through narrowed eyes. Sandburg? Is she related to Blair somehow? That could be why I think I know those eyes. Discreetly, he sent out his senses to investigate; seconds later, he was nodding in satisfaction. Naomi Sandburg had to be a close relative of Blair's-they shared the same natural body scent and the underlying bone structure of the face was similar. Coming to a swift conclusion, he proceeded to get to his feet and motioned for the woman to follow. 

He knocked quietly on the glass door, then stuck his head around the edge. 

"What is it now?" growled Simon, not lifting his head from his papers. "I thought I left orders not to be disturbed!" 

"Sorry, sir." Ellison's apology was perfunctory. "But there's a lady here who wants to speak with the both of us." 

Mind still on the poorly written report he was struggling to get through, Banks lifted his head and glared at his senior detective. The glare only lasted seconds. Ellison was wearing his usual impassive face, but there was a glint in the clear eyes which warned the captain that something was up. 

"All right," he capitulated gruffly. "Show her in." He leaned back in his leather chair and watched as Ellison escorted a red-haired woman in and got her settled in the chair in front of his desk. 

"Captain Banks," introduced Ellison formally, "this is Naomi Sandburg." He waited a heart beat, then added, "Blair's mother." 

Eyes already widening at the woman's name, Banks came upright in his chair at the last statement. 

For her part, Naomi was staring up at Ellison, suspicion written large in her eyes. "How did you know that?" she demanded. "I didn't tell you." 

"There's a family resemblance," Jim answered smoothly. To most people, there was actually very little surface evidence to suggest any familial connections. By the knowing look in the dark brown eyes, Ellison knew his boss had realized how the detective had come by that knowledge. "The age also fit," he continued, shrugging. 

"Age?!" For a moment, Naomi seemed too outraged to speak; then she stated icily, "I was usually mistaken for Blair's _sister._ " 

Rich, spoiled rotten and vain, was the conclusion in both cops' eyes as they traded glances. 

Clearing his throat, Banks turned his attention to the woman. "What is it you need to speak about with Detective Ellison and myself? Has it to do with your son, Mrs. Sandburg?" 

"It's Ms.," bit off Naomi. "Of course it has to do with Blair! I received a telephone call from one of Blair's old friends yesterday. Who the hell do you think you are, poking about in my son's life?" The righteous indignation was fairly pouring off her. 

Sighing inwardly, Simon leaned forward and pasted an understanding, yet professionally firm, expression onto his face. "Ms. Sandburg, I can truly see how our digging into your son's past might appear an invasion of his privacy, but it is, unfortunately, necessary. I am not calling Mr. Sandburg a suspect at this point, but he is involved in several violent deaths. Surely you can understand why we must check everything." 

Blue eyes flashing, Naomi said furiously, "I don't appreciate your sense of humor, Captain Banks! Neither does my lawyer, and I'm damn sure a judge wouldn't, either." 

Confused, Banks shot a look at Ellison, who shrugged his ignorance. "Sense of humor, Ms. Sandburg?" Simon responded blankly. "I don't understand what you're implying. I assure you, there is nothing remotely funny about a murder investigation." 

"That goes without saying, and I am not objecting to that pursuit," the woman snapped. "What I find intolerable is your disgusting attempt, for some unfathomable reason, to drag my poor Blair's memory through the mud. I won't stand for it!" 

"Memory?" Completely bewildered now, Banks looked over at his detective. 

Ellison's jaw muscle was jumping, and his eyes had gone steely. "I think you had better explain, in words of one syllable, just what it is you want," he said coolly. The pit of his stomach had inexplicably clenched tight and he was fighting back waves of nausea. One part of his mind was shrinking back, terrified of what Naomi would say next; the other part was fatalistically resigned, certain he already knew what was coming. 

"I want you to stop exploiting my son!" shouted Naomi. "Let him rest in peace, for god's sake!" 

"R-Rest in peace?" stuttered Banks. 

Ellison had blanched; his teeth were ground together so tightly, his facial bones were showing through his skin. 

"Yes, rest in peace," Ms. Sandburg snarled. "Blair died three years ago! I'm unable to comprehend just why you should feel you have to go through with this ridiculous, demeaning farce." 

For the first time in his life, Simon Banks was flummoxed to the point of speechlessness. The Sandburg woman's statement catapulted about his brain, colliding with his own previous memories of having spoken, face to face, with Blair Sandburg. _A man calling himself Blair Sandburg_ , Simon told himself abruptly, feverishly grasping for any rational explanation to this mind-boggling corundum. *What solid proof did we ever get that this Shaman guy is who he said he was, huh? His word? Deal's? Maybe that's why Deal was killed; maybe he was ready to come clean about Shaman.* 

"You're lying." 

The cold, flat indictment rang through the highly charged atmosphere. 

Banks looked up from his rationalizing in time to see Naomi shoot to her feet, sparks flying from enraged eyes. 

"How dare you!" 

Simon turned his attention to the woman's accuser, and flew to his own feet. What the hell is going on here? he wondered dazedly. Jim looks...looks... 

Jim Ellison was sheet-white and the cornflower blue eyes held an expression of haunted desperation. His jaw muscle was jumping wildly as he stood there, both big fists clenched at his sides, glaring at Naomi. The police captain couldn't quite decide just how he would describe the look on his friend's face: there was rage, yes, but underlying it was a perplexing mixture of anguish, despair and denial. Stranger still, there was also a sense of sorrowful knowledge, almost as though the news was not entirely unexpected. 

Forcibly shaking off his uncharacteristic mental fuzziness, Simon barked, "Stand down!" 

Jim gave no sign that he had heard him. 

"Did you hear me, Detective?" Banks inquired coldly. "I said, stand down!" 

Ellison scowled then, slowly, he stepped back a pace, relaxing his body language. But he continued to glare fiercely at the woman. 

Idly wondering why his visitor hadn't disintegrated under that fiery stare, Banks ordered, "Now apologize to Ms. Sandburg." 

The blue-eyed laser was redirected at him, but Banks knew better than to back down. He had found, at great cost to his ulcer, that strict and decisive discipline was the only way to keep the ex-Ranger in line when his fearsome temper got the best of him. Ellison might snarl and grumble, but eventually, his in-built obedience to a superior officer would kick in. 

"You heard me, Detective Ellison." Banks kept his voice crisp and firm. "Apologize to Ms. Sandburg." 

"Sorry." The word was forced out between stiff lips. 

As an apology, it barely met the definition, but Banks was satisfied. "If you wish to remain on this case, I don't want another word out of you while Ms. Sandburg and I finish our conversation. Is that clear?" 

"Yes, sir." Ellison went into parade rest, hands clasped behind him, eyes locking on a spot of wall over Banks' left shoulder. He remained in that position even after the captain had turned his attention back to Naomi Sandburg. 

"My sincere apologies, Ms. Sandburg," he offered smoothly. 

Somewhat placated, Naomi resumed her seat. 

Once she had done so, Simon also sat back down. "I know this question is going to seem irrelevant, Ms. Sandburg, but have you ever heard of an illusionist who calls himself `Shaman'?" 

"No. I don't go to the theater much." Naomi used one perfectly manicured hand to push at her hair, patting it to make sure it was still in place. She hesitated, then allowed her curiosity to show. "Should I know him?" 

"The man performing as Shaman here in Cascade claims his real name is Blair Sandburg," Simon told her. "That's why we were looking into your son's background. You can see why your news has disconcerted us." 

"I have never heard of such a thing!" gasped Naomi. "I don't know who that charlatan is, but he is most certainly not my son. Blair was the youngest professor of anthropology in Harvard's history; he was the foremost expert on the ancient concept of Sentinels and had received international acclaim for his published papers. My son would never sink so low as to sell himself to a paying audience!" 

_Why do all the rich have to be such snobs?_ Shoving that unkind observation to the back of his mind, Banks asked gently, "Might I inquire how and when Blair died?" 

Mollified by the ultra-respectful treatment she felt was due her, Naomi permitted herself to relax slightly. 

"It was so dreadful," she wailed softly, dabbing at her eyes with a pure white handkerchief she had drawn from her purse. "After all those silly expeditions to all those dangerous places, he was killed within sight of his own home. He'd been seeing this woman, Samantha Ciccoli, but had decided to end the relationship when she became so possessive and nasty. The awful woman didn't take it well; she forced her way into his office at the university and shot him." The sniff she gave sounded authentic. "My poor baby didn't even make it to the hospital." 

"Did the police catch the Ciccoli woman?" 

"They didn't have to look for her. Once she had murdered my Blair, the loathsome woman turned the gun on herself. She left a suicide note stating, this way, she and Blair would be together for all eternity." Naomi made a disgusted sound. "As if my son would voluntarily choose to be with her!" 

"This was three years ago?" clarified Banks. 

"Yes." Naomi fixed him with a steely eye. "It was January 17, 1996. If you don't believe me, you can check with the Harvard campus police." 

"I have no reason to doubt you, Ms. Sandburg," reassured Simon. "Would you happen to carry a picture of your son with you?" 

It was clear she was debating whether or not to accede to the request but, reaching for her purse, Naomi withdrew a small wallet and opened it to reveal a snapshot. This, she pulled out and handed over to the police captain. 

Looking down at the photo, Simon had another bout of dizzy confusion. The young man smiling widely in the snapshot was an exact duplicate of Shaman, the magician. _Plastic surgery_ , Banks decided firmly. *I don't know why the kid has gone to such pains, but I'm damn well going to find out.* He handed the picture back to Blair's mother with a mumbled thanks. 

Jim Ellison had not been paying any overt attention to the conversation between his captain and the woman, but he hadn't missed a single syllable. Steadfastly refusing to consider the import of what he was hearing, he kept his mind a careful blank and continued to stare at the wall behind Banks' desk. He didn't even glance down when the snapshot was passed back and forth. His attention was drawn back to the present by the sound of the other two getting to their feet. 

"Thank you for your invaluable assistance, Ms. Sandburg," Banks was saying. "I promise you that I will get to the bottom of this matter." 

"Thank you, Captain Banks." Naomi actually unbent enough to shake hands. "Please keep me updated as to your progress. Here is my card with my home number." 

"I'll show Ms. Sandburg to the elevator, Captain." 

Banks eyed his detective with suspicion, but could only see Ellison's normal stoic appearance. He nodded warily, but agreed. "You do that." 

"This way, Ms. Sandburg." Jim opened the door and gestured the woman out ahead of him. 

Nose disdainfully in the air, Naomi swept past him out of the office and through the double doors of Major Crime. Not deigning to speak, she waited frigidly for the elevator to arrive. 

Unaffected by the cold shoulder treatment, Ellison maintained an equally cool exterior. Suddenly, his attention was caught by the increase in volume of a familiar sound. Careful not to give anything away by either expression or movement, he sent his eyes around the busy hallway. A few seconds later, he relaxed. _There he is._

Standing half-hidden in the doorway to the men's room, Blair Sandburg stared at the woman waiting by the elevator. A look of bitter pain bled from the expressive eyes. As Jim stood there, apparently unnoticed by the other man, Blair's heart rate accelerated dramatically and a single tear coursed slowly down a high cheek bone. 

The sudden `ding' as the elevator arrived distracted Ellison for several seconds. After he had watched Naomi get on, he turned back to where Blair had been. 

He was gone. 

<<<>>>

Pushing aside his barely-touched lunch, Jim abruptly came to his feet. Going over to the cashier of the small deli, he paid for his unwanted meal. Minutes later, he was in his SUV and hitting a number on his speed dial. After a short conversation, he hung up. Starting the vehicle's engine, he carefully pulled into traffic, heading north on Calumet Boulevard. 

He had to talk with Blair. 

<<<>>>

Back in the Major Crime bullpen, Simon Banks stuck his head out of his office and looked around. Not seeing the person he was seeking, he called out, "Hey, Rafe. Ellison back from lunch yet?" 

"He isn't coming back," came the absent reply. Rafe was rather occupied in trying to coax his older model computer into printing out a report. 

"What??" 

The surprised bellow broke the detective's abstraction, and he hurried to explain. "Sorry, Captain. I mean, Ellison phoned just a bit ago, said something had come up and that he probably wouldn't be in the rest of the day." 

"He called a few minutes ago?" Banks was puzzled. "He didn't ask to speak with me?" 

"Maybe he thought you were busy," Rafe suggested, not understanding his captain's tension. 

"Yeah," muttered Banks, retreating to his office. 

Slowly closing the door, he stood there for several minutes, deep in thought. Banks had been a little surprised when Ellison, after escorting Naomi to the elevator, had stuck his head in the office to announce he was going to lunch-the big cop had only been at work a little over ninety minutes. But shrewdly figuring the detective needed a chance in private to absorb what he'd just heard, Banks had just nodded an okay. When Ellison came back, they would both discuss the impact the startling information had on the case. 

Now, though, Ellison had called in, dodged speaking with his superior, and instead, casually informed a fellow detective that he wouldn't be able to finish his shift. 

Reaching for his phone, Banks dialed Ellison's cell phone number. Moments later, he was staring at the instrument in disbelief as the tinny recording repeated "The cell phone you are trying to reach is either out of range or turned off. Please try again later." Simon knew Jim never left his cell turned off, and that it was ludicrous to even think he'd left Cascade. That meant the other man had deliberately cut contact and it was that thought which left Banks with a deep frown and sense of foreboding. 

That sort of behavior was completely unprecedented for the workaholic cop. A sinking feeling growing in the pit of his stomach, Banks wondered just how deeply Jim had been drawn into the magician's orbit. Although Ellison had not said a word, Banks was not blind nor deaf, and he had noticed the growing closeness between the two men. Now that the man masquerading as Blair Sandburg had been proven a fraud and a liar, Banks worried how his friend would react. 

"God, Jim, don't do something that would force me to arrest you." 

<<<>>>

The Expedition continued its purposeful negotiation of mid-day traffic. Turning west on Puget Sound Road, Ellison deftly guided his vehicle along the crowded street. A strange calm had come over him since he'd made the decision to speak with Blair. There was no anxiety, no feeling of impatience, to mar his journey. He had to speak with Blair, and peculiarly, he felt he knew exactly where he would find the other man. Not questioning his inexplicable knowledge, Jim pulled into a visitor lot at Rainier University and parked. Getting out of his truck, he set off at a brisk pace, following the steady, reassuring heart beat toward Hargrove Hall, Rainier's anthropology building. 

Fifteen minutes of fast walking brought him to a small rise. The merry sounds of bubbling water had caught his ear a few moments before and, as he crested the top of the rise, he saw a large stone fountain splashing playfully in a courtyard in front of a massive brick building. There were concrete benches scattered all around, some next to the fountain, others standing on the grass, hiding beneath the trees. Unerringly, Jim headed for a bench partially obscured by a huge aspen. 

Coming up to the man seated on the bench, Ellison greeted him quietly, "Hey, Chief." 

Blair didn't appear all that surprised to see him. Bringing his gaze back from the middle-distance, he gave a small smile. "Hi, Jim. Have a seat?" He gently patted the concrete beside him. 

"Don't mind if I do." Easing himself down, Jim gazed at the fountain for a minute or two, before saying softly, "You took off without saying anything. I was worried." 

"Sorry." Sandburg turned his attention to the lush grass beneath their feet. Voice slightly unsteady, he explained, "I just hadn't expected to see Naomi there. It was a bit overwhelming. I haven't seen her in..." 

"Three years," Jim finished for him. "Yeah, she told us." 

Blair glanced over at the man sitting sedately beside him and shook his head. "You're taking this situation awfully well, man." 

"How do you want me to react, Chief?" Jim captured the magician's eyes with his own. "Disbelief? Anger? Hysterics? Yeah, I had my moments of those. I don't know exactly what is going on or how it came to be, but one thing is crystal clear. I can see you sitting beside me; I can hear your heart beat; I can feel your lovely body heat; I can smell your enticing aroma; I remember the taste of you on my lips. I know you're not an impostor-you and your mother share the same facial structure. I don't know what the hell is going on, but I'm certain of one thing: Blair Sandburg is sitting beside me." 

Heart overflowing, Blair fought back tears. "Do you realize, Jim, that you are the only one whose senses read me as a normal person? The rest of the world-all they feel is freezing cold, extreme nausea and panicky uneasiness if they get too close to me." 

"Even Vince?" 

"Yeah." Blair quickly glanced back down, then up again. The shimmer of tears remained, but he didn't let them fall. "Oh, he tried to hide it, act as though nothing was wrong, but I could tell." Blair gave a strained smile. "I could see how he hated himself for feeling that way. I told him time and time again that it wasn't his fault, but he still blamed himself." 

"I'm sorry, Chief," murmured Jim, not really knowing what else to say. A sense of utter isolation and gnawing loneliness poured off the younger man. 

"Don't be, Jim. I was fully informed of the consequences." Sandburg heaved a sigh. "I guess I'd accepted them intellectually, but emotionally." He suddenly fixed Jim with an intent look. "Do you know, you are the only person in the last three years who has touched me? The only one who knows the truth, yet still sees me as a fellow human being, not some monstrous, unnatural thing." Sandburg's voice was shaking at the end of that statement. 

It was pure instinct and Ellison didn't fight it. He reached out with one long arm and, grabbing the shorter man, pulled him in close. Blair gave a choked-off sob and burrowed into the welcoming warmth. 

Placing a tender kiss on top of the curly crown, Jim said gently, "No matter what you are, Blair, you are neither monstrous or unnatural." 

There was no verbal response, but Jim gave a small smile as he felt two strong arms wrap around his waist and squeeze. The two men sat there for some time, enjoying each other and the scenery. Brought back to himself by the sound of a clock chiming in a nearby bell tower, Ellison planted another soft kiss on the silky hair. 

"We need to talk, Chief." 

A minute passed, then Blair quietly admitted, "Yeah, I know." He gave another sigh and lifted his head from where he had nestled it against a muscled shoulder. "I'd hoped that this topic would never come up. You're not going to believe me, Jim; you're going to think I'm some nutcase who's escaped from an asylum somewhere." 

"I doubt that, Chief." Jim emitted a small chuckle. "I'm sitting here, holding a man who has been documented to have died three years ago. Somehow, I think it's going to take something very bizarre to shake me." 

Sandburg didn't return the humor. He regarded the cop with a solemn expression. "Don't make the mistake of taking this lightly, Jim." Looking away, he forced out, "If, after hearing what I have to say, you feel you never want to see me again, I'll understand. I really will." 

Ellison began to protest, but Sandburg interrupted him. "You can't know how you're going to react until after you know the whole story. Please don't make a promise you might not want to keep. I...couldn't take that." His voice broke. 

"Okay, I won't make promises." Jim was willing to humor the younger man since it appeared so important to him. "Where do you want to do this?" 

"How about your place?" suggested Blair. "If you don't mind having someone like me in your condo, that is." 

"My place, it is." Ellison ignored the last sentence. 

Somewhat reluctantly, they got to their feet. Both were loathe to end the peaceful interlude, but both were also aware that, until they had dealt with the ugly reality around them, they couldn't go further. They walked back to the SUV, shoulders brushing frequently. Reaching the Expedition, Jim unlocked the passenger door, then walked around the hood to his own door. The two men climbed into the vehicle and shut their doors simultaneously. 

When Ellison still had not started the motor after several minutes, Blair hesitantly said, "Jim?" 

Big hands were clenched tightly on the steering wheel, their knuckles showing white. Keeping his eyes fixed on the scenery outside the windshield, Ellison asked hoarsely, "Chief, it's stupid, but I have to know. Why won't you allow yourself to be photographed or filmed?" There's a logical explanation for this, and Blair's going to tell me. I know it. 

Heart breaking, Blair answered honestly, "Because I'm dead, Jim. The only thing a photograph or film would show would be a three year old corpse. My...abilities...don't extend to fooling technical devices. The poster we use for publicity is a blow-up of a snapshot Naomi had taken at a university banquet a month before I was shot." 

Silently, Ellison turned the ignition and carefully backed out of the parking space. Slowly pulling out of the lot, he pointed the Expedition in the direction of the loft. 

<<<>>>

Forty minutes later, Jim was unlocking the door to his condo. He ushered Sandburg in then, after closing the door, he hung both their jackets on hooks. 

"Beer? A bottle of water?" Ellison queried politely. Distantly, he wondered that he could sound and behave so normally, act as though his world had not come crashing down around him. Jim had known that his dream of a life with Blair had been just that-a dream-yet the cop had held out a faint hope that, maybe, the illusionist would at least want to stay in touch as friends. Now, even that small wish had been shattered. 

A supremely practical and logical man, Ellison hadn't believed in ghosts, spirits, angels or any other form of supernatural phenomena. Because of Blair, however, he had now been forced to reconsider those beliefs. Ellison couldn't forget what Naomi Sandburg had said; hell, Blair had confirmed it! Yet, Jim also could not deny the evidence of his own hyper-sensitive senses: He had touched, smelled and kissed the man standing so forlornly by his front door. He had talked with the man, heard his heart beat-could still hear that precious sound, could hear the breath moving easily in and out of fully functioning lungs. Desperately, Jim prayed that he would soon wake up; but, deep inside, he was painfully aware there would be no escaping this nightmare. 

Jim was so immersed in his anguished thoughts that he almost missed Sandburg's quiet, "No, thanks, man." 

Hearing the subdued tone in the magician's voice, Ellison's wayward heart twisted. However devastating this situation was for him, it was astoundingly worse for Blair. For three years, Blair had been in the nightmare; been completely isolated from the hordes of people surrounding him; forced, for some as yet unknown reason, to wander the planet in search of something. No comforting touch, no physical or emotional closeness; his one companion, although he had loved and protected Blair, had never been able to get past his own deep-seated fears and superstitions. 

"Hey, Chief." called Jim softly, forgetting he wasn't supposed to make any promises. "It'll be all right. You'll see." 

"Yeah. Sure." Sandburg gave a twisted smile. 

"I mean it, Blair." Ellison's voice was firmer, more definite. 

He walked over to where the other man was standing and, with a hand to the small of Sandburg's back, he guided the younger man over to the sofa. Once there, he gently pushed him down onto the cushions. Before Blair could protest, Jim had sunk down next to him and tugged Blair against himself. 

Expelling a shaky sigh, Sandburg cuddled into the strong body. "How can you stand to hold me when you know what I am?" 

As Sandburg had his face buried in Ellison's shoulder, the question was badly muffled. In fact, if it hadn't been for his exceptional hearing, Jim was certain he would never have understood the query. 

"I can hold you because I love you," he said frankly. Ignoring the sudden catch in Sandburg's breathing and the increased heart rate, Jim gently ordered, "Talk to me, Chief." 

"God, you say something like that, and then you want me to tell you about this shit!" Blair raised his head, but didn't move away. "Damn you, Jim Ellison." 

"Yeah, I know," Jim admitted ruefully. 

"Before I say anything else, I need to say this." Blair held the cop's eyes. "I love you, man. If you'll have me, I want to stay with you." 

Ellison was pole-axed and trembling. A soft luminescence lit Sandburg's face; his dark blue eyes glimmered and shone from a light within. There was no need to use his enhanced senses to verify that dearly longed-for statement; he could feel that emotion flowing from Blair to himself. The truth of the feeling warmed and caressed him, eased itself around his lonely heart and poured into the hole inside that Jim had despaired of ever filling. 

"Jesus, Chief." 

Leaning down, Ellison took control of the siren mouth. Blair opened to him immediately; tongues dueled and fought with a feverish intensity. Intent on imprinting every aspect of the other man, to drawing Blair's very essence into himself and never letting it go, Jim sucked, bit and licked frantically. Sandburg appeared just as frantic; he seemed to be trying to force his tongue down Ellison's throat. Mewling and whimpering, both men clung to each other, hands grasping brutally enough to leave bruises. 

Finally forced by the need to breathe into drawing back, Jim whooped in gasps of air; he was already mourning the lack of contact. Next to him, Blair gasped and panted, his face hidden in the juncture of Ellison's shoulder and neck. 

It took several minutes, but Blair was at last able to get out, "Oh, man. I thought I had known Heaven, but I was wrong. Now I know it." 

"Chief, don't." Jim's voice was raw with desperate emotion. "Don't say things like that." 

Blair gave the cop a loving look. "Why not? It's true." Raising a hand, he tenderly stroked the perfect face. "I don't honestly know how things are going to turn out-I was never told that-but I promise you this: I am going to do my damnedest to stay here with you. If you'll have me." 

"If I'll have you?!" echoed Jim. He pulled Blair tightly against him, saying fiercely into the tangle of silky hair, "How can you even _ask_ me that? How can you doubt that I'll never let you go now that I know you love me too?" 

"Good, that's settled," declared Sandburg, planting a soft kiss on the stubborn jaw. 

Basking in the exquisite sensations, Jim groaned. Calling on his considerable willpower, he eased himself slightly away from his lover. "Chief, we can't afford to get distracted." His attempt to be stern was rather spoiled by the glowing joy he was unable to hide. 

"Spoilsport," grumbled Sandburg. 

Ellison heard the rapid increase in pulse and respiration; cringing inside, he deeply regretted ruining the tender mood, but time was running out-for both of them. "Chief...Blair, I know. I know," he emphasized seriously, "but we have to get this mess straightened out, and fast. After that talk with your mom, Simon is convinced that you're some crackpot impostor, possibly a murderer. I've got to know exactly what's going on so I can help you, protect you." 

Blair shook his head sadly. "You can't help me, Jim. You can't protect me, either; not from what I have to do." 

"You can't know that," argued Ellison heatedly. "Don't shut me out, Chief. Please. Tell me what's going on and let me help." 

Unable to bear the pleading, vulnerable look on the normally stoic face, Sandburg closed his eyes, torn. Briefly, he wondered if he had the right to draw Jim further into this mess, exposing him to a danger he didn't fully believe in. Sighing, Blair ultimately came to a difficult conclusion. Ellison was, by the nature of his job, already involved. If Blair didn't give him all the information available, there was the terrifying chance the cop, in trying to help Sandburg, would stumble into a situation he would not have the knowledge to handle. 

"Okay, Jim." 

Hearing the defeated note in the illusionist's voice, Ellison tightened his grip on him and declared, "I'm sorry for pushing you, Chief. But it's necessary; for helping you escape Simon's suspicions, for helping you with whatever you have to do. Together, Blair, that's the secret of success. Together, we can do anything." 

"If you say so, man." Sandburg didn't look all that certain, but seemed willing to give the other man the benefit of the doubt. He canted a look upward from under his lashes. "Where do you want me to begin?" 

Momentarily distracted by the picture Blair unconsciously presented, Ellison mentally shook his head and suggested, "Why not start at the beginning?" 

"The beginning? Hell, man, I'm not sure I even know where the beginning is!" Taking a deep breath, Blair ran a hand through his hair. 

"Tell me what happened after the..." Jim struggled to get the word out. The mere thought of Blair being shot to death was enough to cause his heart to seize. "...after Samantha," he finally got out. 

Looking at him understandingly, Blair leaned over and kissed him softly. Before his own nerve could fail, he said hurriedly, "I honestly have very little memory of the shooting; so don't hurt yourself over that, all right?" 

Ellison nodded, a look of heartfelt relief passing over his face. 

"The next thing that is clear to me: I'm standing in the middle of this really peaceful clearing in a forest, birds and flowers all about. I'm totally confused, let me tell you, and I start hollering out, asking if anyone is there, where the hell am I...that sort of thing. I know I'd stood there for quite some time when, suddenly, this voice just came out of nowhere. Scared the hell out of me, man!" Blair gave a small self-deprecating laugh. The memories came rushing back and it was as if the past three years had never been... 

*"Who said that?" Blair whirled in a circle, looking for the source of the eerie voice. "Where are you?" 

"We are here." The voice was everywhere in the clearing. Its timber was unnatural, yet peculiarly comforting for all of that. 

"Oookay," Blair drew out the word, while he attempted to find his mental feet. "Can I ask where I am?" 

"You are here, also." 

Yup, definite note of amusement there, Blair thought dazedly. At least they, whoever the hell they are, have a sense of humor. Bizarrely, although he had heard only one voice, Blair didn't doubt his inner conviction that there was more than one soul present. 

"Where are your questions, Blair Sandburg?" asked the mysterious voice. "We have never known you to be so silent before now." 

"Hey!" protested Blair, feeling as though he had to defend himself. "I needed to ask all those questions; how else was I going to get answers?" 

"Very good, Blair Sandburg." The voice held a note of warm approval. "You have gained much from all your travels. Many men profess to be students of Life yet, for all their knowledge, they know nothing. Not only did you listen, you learned." 

"So glad you approve," muttered Blair. He took a deep breath. "Mind telling me just where the hell I am, why I'm here? Wherever `here' is, I mean." 

"Where else should you be?" 

Blair frowned slightly; for some odd reason, he could not clearly remember where he had been or what he had been doing. Uneasiness prickling at the base of his spine, he said slowly, "My office...I was in my office, and." A brief image flared in his mind, bringing with it a wash of sheer terror. He gasped, "Samantha!" Subconsciously clutching at his chest, which abruptly held an echo of knifing, fiery pain, Blair stammered thickly, "S-She shot me...Sam shot me!" Panic cresting in his eyes, he demanded, "Why am I here and not in a hospital?" 

"You know where you are, Blair Sandburg." It was said firmly, yet kindly. "You know why you are here, instead of being in a hospital." 

A wave of dizziness swept rapidly over him, taking his breath and causing his stomach to drop to his toes. Blair squeezed his eyes shut and fought the nausea, fought the whispering voice in his head, but it was of no use. Long, tortured minutes later, he had to wearily concede the fight. Logic and instinct in total agreement, he acknowledged dully, "I'm dead, aren't I? Samantha killed me." 

"Yes." Perhaps it was only his feverish imagination, but there seemed to be great sorrow in the voice. 

I'm dead; Sam killed me. That impossible thought ricocheted around his tumbling brain. But I can't be dead, he cried mentally in anguished protest. There's still too much to do; so much I haven't seen yet. A spear of bravado shot its way out of the milling mass of halfhysterical thoughts. I can't be dead; I haven't finished my paper on the Moche mummies yet! 

A deep, genuine laugh filled the clearing. 

Hastily reminded of his circumstances, Blair blushed. "Sorry. I'm...just a tad overwhelmed, here." 

"There is no need for apology," reassured the entities. "You are dealing with the knowledge of your own mortality much better than many of your fellow beings." 

"It's not that I object to being dead," Blair tried to explain. "I mean, once we're born, we're going to die sometime. Right? It's the timing thing that sucks. I have this really important paper for a magazine to finish, Dr. Ballard wants my input on a new exhibition at the museum, and my mother is expecting me for dinner." Blair gasped again as a fresh pain twisted his heart. "My mother. Oh, Naomi!" 

He glanced around frantically. "Is Naomi--my mother--is she all right? I mean..." 

"Your mother is dealing with this unfortunate situation to the best of her ability," the entities assured him quietly. "We will not lie to you; there is much pain and grief, but we expect she will persevere." 

"Good, good." Blair nodded jerkily. "I mean, I know she never really wanted me, that there were numerous times when I was a little kid that I was a complete hassle to have around, but she loved me; I know she did." 

"Yes, she did." The solemn conviction in the Spirits' voice was a balm to Blair's grieving soul. "Your mother has loved you as much as she was capable. She will mourn your loss for many years to come." 

Fighting back tears, Blair mentally pulled himself up and shook his head to clear it. It's over and done with, he decided shakily, crying and hysterics won't change a thing. What's important now is to go on to wherever I'm destined to go. 

"Yes, you have a destiny to fulfill," the voice confirmed. "Though it is not the one you are expecting." 

Despite himself, Blair's interest was captured. "Oh?" 

Catching that interest, the entities chuckled. "Sit yourself down by that tree. You will find nourishment and drink there." 

Glancing around, Blair spotted a small, woven jute basket sitting at the base of a towering maple. Going over to the tree, he plopped himself down and opened the basket. His stomach rumbled at the sight of several different fruits, a loaf of bread and a large piece of some sort of meat. He picked up the jug sitting beside the basket and sniffed at the opening. The sweet aroma of fresh water reached his nostrils, and he drank thirstily. It wasn't until he had gobbled down several bananas and an apple, that a thought occurred to him. 

"How can I be thirsty and hungry if I'm dead?" 

"Do you not enjoy the food and water?" At Blair's emphatic nod, the voice seemed to shrug. "Then why should you not have hunger and thirst? If it makes you feel better to have those urges, then you will. It is not important." 

Typical spirit double-talk. Although at least this time, Blair understood what he was being told. If he wanted something, if it made him feel better about this situation, then whatever he wanted, within reason, he would have. 

The implications of that thought hit him, and he looked up, frowning. "Do you offer this concession to everyone, or only me? If only me, what have I done to earn such privileges?" 

"We knew you were the correct person for this task," the voice said obliquely. "You have only convinced us further." 

"Huh? What are you talking about?" 

"You have spoken with many shamans in your travels; you have learned much from them. If you had been allowed to live out your allotted span, Blair Sandburg, you would have become a very powerful shaman, indeed." 

"Me? A shaman?" Blair almost choked on the fig he was eating. "You're kidding, right?" 

"No. We intend no amusement." The voice was austere. "You have already been showing some of your skills. You explained away those instances as `luck'." 

Blair brought his bottom jaw back up from where it had dropped. "Hey, no offense, but I think you have the wrong guy. I've studied shamanism, I believe in it; but I'm not a shaman. I'm nobody very special." 

"If you were not a shaman, how else did you arrive here? How else could you be conversing with us?" The voice was implacable. "You are indeed `special', Blair Sandburg, and it is because of this talent that you have been chosen for this most important of tasks." 

Struggling with this new image of himself, Blair asked weakly, "What task?" Then a thought struck him and his eyes narrowed. "Did you.? That is, was Samantha a part of this?" 

"No." The entities were definite. "Your death was not welcomed, nor necessary. We were going to approach you through your dreams to explain our wishes. We would never condone a premature death; we also mourn the loss of your physical life." 

"All right." Blair didn't question how he knew the Spirits were speaking the truth. The knowledge seemed to appear unasked inside him. It seemed as though they were correct about more than one thing; perhaps he really was becoming a shaman. "What do you want me to do?" 

As the entities outlined what they wanted him to do, the obstacles he would face and the schedule for teaching him to use his natural, shamanistic abilities, Blair's jaw dropped again.* 

As Blair stopped to catch his breath, he glanced over at Jim, and hid his smile. The detective had an expression of intense interest on his face and seemed to be hanging on Blair's every word. 

"Well?" prompted Ellison impatiently. "What do they want you to do?" 

"They want me to stop Eli Stoddard," answered Blair bluntly. 

Jim blinked. "Who the hell is Eli Stoddard?" 

"A fucking monster," spat out Sandburg. Then, he caught himself and explained, "When I studied shamanism, Jim, I did it with the intention of receiving the knowledge and ability to help people. Stoddard, on the other hand, had vastly different ideas." 

"He was in it for himself, and what it could offer him." 

"You said it. Forty-five years ago, Stoddard was an anthropologist like myself; he spent time among primitive cultures and beguiled them into revealing their most precious secrets. Then he returned to the US and started a murderous cult. He perverted and twisted all that was beautiful and right. Not even the Spirits are positive how many innocent, and not-so-innocent, people he trapped into his hellish beliefs. Stoddard was killed almost thirty years ago by one of his followers who had become aware of his true motives. However, like me, Eli is not resting quietly in his grave. The Dark Spirits he serves decided it would best advance their purpose to leave him in the physical world. So he's continued his favorite pastime of manipulation, rape, murder and torture and not just of single individuals, either. If you were a practicing Christian, you would call him the anti-Christ." 

"Jesus, Chief," breathed Ellison, stunned beyond words. Yet, he never doubted for a moment that Blair was speaking the truth. 

"I have to stop him, Jim. Not only because he's a cold-blooded monster who enjoys torturing and killing; not only because he's in league with all that is unnatural and evil, but also because he's starting to exert an influence where he should not." 

Seeing Ellison open his mouth to ask a question, Blair shook his head. "I can't tell you more than that, Jim. Those names aren't for me to expose. Just rest assured, not all the ills of the world are man-made." 

"How come the Spirits don't know exactly where Stoddard is? Why did they choose you to stop him?" wondered Ellison aloud. He considered how that must have sounded and winced. "I mean." 

Blair laughed gently. "Don't worry about it, man; I do know what you mean. As for your questions, I asked the Spirits those very same ones." 

"What answer did you get?" 

"The answer I should've expected, considering who, or what, I was dealing with," sighed Blair. 

"And?" prompted Ellison, eyebrows raised in expectation. 

"I would know the answer to those questions when it was time for me to know." 

"Oh, great," grumbled Jim. "I hate riddles!" A random thought popped into his mind, and he gave Sandburg a close look. "I take it Stoddard is the one responsible for these murders." It was not question. 

"Yes. I've spent the last three years searching the world for him. Now I've found him and he also knows I'm here. He killed those poor people to taunt me, to throw my inability to protect them in my face." Blair's eyes were haunted. "It's because of me that Vince, Officer Ricardo and Cynthia were killed. Their deaths will forever be on my conscience." 

"You can't blame yourself for his actions, Chief," Jim hurried to reassure him. "The man is insane, a maniac; no one can predict what his kind will do." 

"My head tells me you're right," sighed Blair. "My heart..." 

"Listen to your head." advised Ellison. "You have a beautiful, loving heart which accepts responsibility for things beyond your influence. Don't get bogged down in guilt and regrets, Chief, or you'll never accomplish what you need to do." 

Knowing that Ellison was speaking from personal experience, Blair sighed again and nodded his acceptance. 

Long, quiet minutes went by, both men lost in their thoughts. 

"How did you hook up with Vince?" Jim finally asked. 

"I've known Vince Deal for almost my entire life," Sandburg replied, renewed pain in his voice. "He was the father I never had." He shook off the memories and inquired, "Wasn't this in your background checks on us?" 

Shifting uncomfortably-though there had been no censure in the baritone voice-Jim muttered, "I hadn't gotten one back on you, yet. The one on Deal gave only general personal items; there was no mention of you." 

"I see." Smiling faintly, Sandburg took pity on his lover. "Believe it or not, Naomi and Vince first met at a commune. From what Vince has told me, they sort of got together because both were from similar wealthy backgrounds, and both were rebelling against those backgrounds. Later, after Vince had left the commune, he'd decided to `grow up', as he put it, and had gotten involved in his family's bank, he was shocked to discover that Naomi was one of their biggest clients. They accidentally met again one day, and the rest is history." 

"Don't take this wrong, Chief, but I find it kind of odd that a banker would take such an interest in a strange kid, no matter how important the account." 

"Oh, Vince already knew about me," Blair said blithely. "Naomi had been just about ready to deliver when she left the commune, so he knew she had a kid somewhere." 

"You said he was the father you never had," Jim began slowly. "Maybe he." 

"Really was my father?" Blair shook his head. "Unfortunately, no. Once, when I was about ten, I asked him that, point-blank. At least Vince was one of those rare adults who would honestly answer a child's question. He told me that, although he and Naomi had slept together several times at the commune, he couldn't be my father because he'd been born sterile. I understood what he was telling me and, frankly, I wasn't too upset about it. Even if he wasn't my biological father, you sure couldn't tell it from his actions." Throat swelling, Blair fought to continue. "Until the day he died, Vince spoiled me rotten." Blair lost his battle to hold back his tears. Burying his face in the taut chest of his lover, he let them flow freely. 

"It's okay to cry, babe," crooned Jim, tightening his grip around the shaking shoulders. "You lost someone you loved. Let it out; let it out." An arrow of pain stuck his heart and he fought back tears of his own. Not for the unfortunate Vince Deal; although he was enormously grateful to the man for his care and protection of Blair, Ellison had barely known the man and could not honestly grieve for him. No, his tears were for the obvious pain and loss Blair was experiencing. Perhaps it was stupid, but it tore him apart to see the younger man in any sort of pain. 

"You know, this is sort of ridiculous," mumbled Sandburg a few soggy minutes later. He sat back and started to wipe at the tears on his cheeks. A big hand got there first, tenderly stroking away the moisture and leaving a healing warmth in its wake. "I know Vince is all right; that his soul has moved on to a place where it's happy and free. I know that." 

"But you miss him." 

"Yeah, I do." 

"He must've been devastated when you were...shot...and overjoyed when you came back." 

"When the Spirits brought me back to the physical world, I found myself outside Vince's apartment building. I couldn't figure out why the hell they had left me there; then it dawned on me that they wanted Vince to help. I headed upstairs and rang his bell." 

"Am I safe in saying he was--umm, delighted?--to see you cluttering up his doorstep?" Ellison asked facetiously. 

"Oh, yeah. He just stared at me for the longest time, then he burst into tears." Blair smiled widely; then surprisingly, the smile mutated into a pained grimace. "He grabbed me, once he'd gotten over his shock; he moved so quickly, I didn't have a chance to warn him. It only took a few seconds and he was tearing away from me, stumbling backward. His face was dreadfully white and covered in cold sweat." 

Sandburg gazed unseeingly into the middle distance. "It was half an hour before he stopped throwing up, stopped shaking so hard his teeth rattled." Blair sniffed, and tried to smile, but it was a sad effort. "Poor Vince, every time he managed to calm his stomach, he'd pop back out to make sure I was still there and grab me again. Then the nausea would get him once more, and back he'd go." Looking down at his feet, he finished quietly, "It was another twenty-four hours before his hands warmed up, for the numbness and tingling to completely go away." 

Jim's heart broke at the despair and intense self-recrimination pouring off the shaman. Raising a hand, he gently stroked the silky curls back from the downbent face. "I know this is going to sound odd," he began softly, "but I think that incident bothered you more than it ever bothered Vince." 

That got Sandburg's attention. "What do you mean?" 

"If he'd been as severely traumatized by that touch as you seem to think, I somehow doubt he would've stayed with you the past three years. I mean, those years couldn't have been easy on him: three years of constant travel, never knowing when you were going to run into this Stoddard, not knowing what was going to happen when you did find him." 

Blair stared at him blankly. 

"Vince was well aware of the drawbacks of being around you, Chief," stated Jim. "He loved you, so the drawbacks were inconsequential." 

"Yeah, he did love me," Sandburg acknowledged in a hushed voice. "I just wish I'd told him more often how much he meant to me." 

"He knew, Chief," Ellison said decisively. "He knew; that was obvious even to a stranger like myself." 

"Thanks, man." This time, Sandburg's smile was wide and unfeigned. 

Wilting at the edges under the impact of that smile, Jim found himself helplessly smiling back. "No need for thanks, Chief. I just wish there was more I could do to help you." 

"Oh, you help, you help," breathed Blair. "You have no idea how much easier this has been since I've met you; how having hope again for the future just seems to brighten everything." 

Reaching up, he curled a hand around the strong neck and brought Ellison down to him. The kiss was tender, deep and possessive.and it lasted an eternity. 

"If it wasn't for you, my love," whispered Blair between soft, biting kisses, "I know I wouldn't be trying so hard to stay in this world. I would just finish my mission and leave; I wouldn't care what happened afterward." 

Abruptly terrified, Jim clutched at the magician. "Don't leave me, Chief," he begged hoarsely. "Don't ever leave me. If you do, I swear to God, I'll follow." 

"Shush, my love, shush," soothed Sandburg, caressing Ellison's cheek. "I told you I would do my utmost to stay with you and I meant that. But, Jim," he went on, deep blue eyes boring into the cop's, "if I can't, if something happens or the Spirits won't let me, there's no reason to despair. We'll be together again, I know we will; in another life or where the Spirits dwell, our souls will find each other. That I know as surely as I know I love you." 

Gazing at Blair's serene countenance, Jim let himself be mollified. A stray thought suddenly crossed his mind. "Uh, Chief? This is probably not the time or place for this, but how the hell did you get out of the PD so fast this afternoon? I was minutes behind you, but you were gone." 

"How did I get out so quickly? The same way I get out of prop cabinets without exits; the same way I get volunteers out of those cabinets. Like this." Blair chuckled and vanished. 

Ellison blinked stupidly for several seconds at the place where the younger man had been, then erupted to his feet. "Chief?" 

There was no answer. Anxiety overtaking him, Jim frantically sent out his senses, desperately searching for his lover. "Blair!" There was real fear in his voice and Ellison made no attempt to hide it. 

Sandburg was again beside him; his return was as abrupt as his departure. "Easy, my love; it's all right." 

Grabbing at him, Jim savagely pulled the illusionist into a fierce embrace. "God," he breathed, "don't ever do that again. Not without telling me first." He buried his fear-cold face into the mop of curls. "I thought I'd lost you." 

"I told you, man," answered Blair, rubbing himself sensuously against the larger body. "You can't lose me. We're connected, Jim; our souls have merged. That's why your senses read me as a living person; as far as your soul is concerned, I am alive. We can't lose each other...not in life, not in death." 

Ice blue eyes smoldering, Jim lowered his head and ravaged the yielding lips. Dipping into every nook and crevice, swiping time and again at the palate, he attempted to reach the younger man's tonsils. Moaning deep in his chest, Sandburg was also giving it his all. Drawing back with a gasp, Ellison licked at lips that felt twice their size. Blair unconsciously mimicked his actions, gazing at the cop out of huge eyes full of barely-leased hunger. 

"Easy, Chief, easy," soothed Ellison, running his hands lightly up and down flannel-covered forearms. He bent and softly sucked at a kiss-swollen lower lip. "How about we take this upstairs? Nice and comfy, with lots of room to maneuver?" 

"I'm down with that," agreed Sandburg, voice rough and needy. A wicked glint came into his eyes. "How about the first one upstairs gets to swallow the other one whole?" 

His body instantly afire at the searing vision, Ellison belatedly realized that the younger man was already halfway up the stairs. Growling menacingly, he charged up after Sandburg, only to be met with a flannel shirt to the face. Throwing the article of clothing aside, Ellison bit back a protest at Sandburg undressing himself. He could understand Blair's urgency; after all, it had been three years since the man had been touched in any way and his control must be very tenuous right now. 

Coming up to the younger man, Ellison put a halt to the frantic disrobing by the simple expedient of putting one hand on Sandburg's groin and rubbing. He murmured, "I wanted to do that for you, Chief." 

Looking up at him with desire-darkened eyes, Sandburg managed a small smile. "I know, Jim. But we'll do that next time, all right?" He gave a shuddering gasp as his zipper slowly eased apart, freeing his burning shaft. Voice deep and husky, Blair vowed, "Next time for both of us, okay? I'm going to slowly peel those clothes off your gorgeous body, then I'm going to learn every inch of you with every inch of me." 

Blood surging madly at the hypnotizing promise in the sultry voice, Ellison fumbled badly, swearing lividly as he tried to push down Sandburg's jeans and briefs. Finally successful, he stared hungrily at the bounty before him. Although not as overtly muscled as himself, Sandburg's body was strong and firm. A dark pelt covered the wide chest; playing an enticing peek-a-boo amid the fur were two plum-colored nipples. An arrow of hair led the eye down, past a taut stomach, to a thick bush decorating the crotch and fading to a soft down on the upper thighs. Sandburg's cock, round and swollen with mouth-watering promise, eased proudly out of its nest. Behind it, heavy testicles strained and quivered in their hair-dusted sacs. 

"My god, Chief--you're beautiful," Ellison said simply. 

Blushing furiously, Sandburg gave a leering grin and suggested, "How about giving a guy a chance to reciprocate?" 

For once not caring about tidiness, Ellison commenced stripping. Tossing clothes willy-nilly, he tried to concentrate on what he was doing. Blair's awestruck moans and lewd whispers severely tested his willpower. 

Running worshipping hands over the cop's broad, hairless chest, Blair crooned, "Look at you! You're like something the gods created-smooth, velvety skin over hard, beautiful muscles; gorgeous long legs that go on for miles." Fingers plucking at salmon-tinted nipples, Sandburg's pupil's expanded until just a tiny rim of blue was visible. "Man, those poor tits are just _begging_ for attention." With that, he swooped down and started nibbling. 

Senses reeling, Ellison grabbed at his lover, using the other man's body as an anchor. He gasped and shook when Blair transferred his mouth to the other aching nipple. As though reading his mind, Blair pulled back just as Ellison's knees threatened to buckle beneath him. 

"Easy there, my love; don't want you bruising that delectable ass of yours. I've got plans later for that piece of your anatomy." Lustful grin on his face, Blair tugged at Ellison until he was standing at the edge of the big bed. Then, pushing gently on the wide shoulders, Blair guided the cop to sit on the side. 

Drawing Sandburg in to stand between his legs, Jim ran his fingers through the silky chest hair, gently pulling and twisting the treasures hidden there. "Turnabout is fair play, Chief," he warned softly, leaning over to run his tongue across the quivering stomach. After a few luxurious minutes, characterized by Blair's gasping breaths and inarticulate moans, Ellison sat back. He grasped the hot, fat rod bobbing erratically in front of him and started a slow, tortuous milking. 

"I-I hear you; I hear you!" Finding an unknown well of strength, Sandburg pulled away from the caressing hand. Drawing in deep breaths, he said, "Wouldn't have it any other way, man; we're equals." The wicked glint returned to the dark eyes as Blair sank to his knees. "That's for later, though. Right now, I want my reward." 

"Reward?" Jim echoed distractedly. His attention was wholly focused on the capable hands petting and stroking his inner thighs, cupping his tense balls. 

"First one upstairs gets to swallow the other one whole, remember?" 

Sandburg watched in gleeful satisfaction as Ellison gulped and swayed where he sat. Framed by powerful thighs, Blair stared with huge-pupiled eyes at the long, heavy shaft pulsing and jerking before him. 

"My love, my own," whispered Sandburg, near reverence visible on his face. "If I had to die in order to get this, it was all worth it." 

Cupping one hand at the juncture of thigh and groin, Sandburg bent and gently kissed the weeping head of Jim's cock. Then, before the other man could draw breath, he swept a wickedly arousing swirl of moisture around the blunt head. Seconds later, a probing tongue tip slipped into the leaking eye. 

Hands unconsciously tightening in Sandburg's hair, a strangled sound escaped Ellison. His breathing was audibly disorganized. 

Cradling his lover's swollen testicles, rubbing against them gently with his thumb, Blair bent to his purpose. Long, slow licks curled around the swollen member, interspersed with tiny nibbles to the fleshy balls. Time and again, Sandburg returned to the tears oozing from the needy shaft's eye. He drank in the emissions, savoring the salty-sour taste. Breathing deeply, Blair abruptly swallowed, down and down, until the flared head brushed the back of his throat. 

Ellison jerked and bit his tongue to keep from releasing his scream. Never before had he been driven to the brink so swiftly; not even in his hormonally over-loaded teen years had he been pushed so far, so fast. His muscles felt like jelly and there were rockets and missiles shooting off behind his eyes. Strangely, though, he felt no urge, no inclination, to slip into a fugue state. He knew he would miss all the exquisite sensations if he let himself slide into that gray void. Ellison was determined to experience all that Blair gave, so he could return the worship and adoration in full measure. 

Sucking madly, Sandburg came back up, teeth scraping gently along the sensitive skin of Ellison's cock. He thrust his tongue under the helmeted head, gently squeezing and caressing the tight balls. Ellison knew he could not last much longer, tried to warn his lover so that Blair could pull back, but his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. Suddenly, the sensations were all too much; with a shout of his lover's name, Jim came. Swallowing rapidly, Blair greedily took the entire offering. When it was over, he softly nipped and kissed at Ellison's lower belly, testicles and inner thighs until the older man had calmed. Sandburg then gently eased the cop back until he was lying on the bed. 

Several minutes later, Ellison cracked open his eyes and groaned. "My god, Chief. Remember, I'm not as young as I used to be! Be gentle with an old man, okay?" 

"Old man?" scoffed Blair, climbing onto the bed and wrapping himself, octopus-fashion, around the larger body. Gently rubbing his cock against a muscled thigh, he went on, "You're not that much older than I am, man." 

Ellison used the fingers tangled in tumbled curls to draw his lover's head to him. Nibbling at the full lower lip, he asked quietly, "How old are you, Chief? I know you don't look a day over sixteen and should still be in high school." He grinned at the punch on the shoulder that comment elicited. 

"Give over, man!" protested Sandburg. "I'll have you know that I was already attending Harvard when I was sixteen." Seeing the mirth in Ellison's clear blue eyes, Blair groaned and bit the shoulder he had just hit. "That's it," he accused, "tease a man whose balls are about to fall off, why don't you?" 

Hand closing tenderly around the other man's swollen testicles, Ellison grinned widely, "Oh, I don't know. These don't feel all that loose to me." At Sandburg's faint moan, Ellison gave a gentle tug. "Pay attention here, Chief. I asked how old you are." 

Glaring at his torturer, Sandburg snarled, "I'm twenty-nine, all right? According to your police ID, you're thirty-seven, so you're not that much older than I am. What are you...an age queen?" 

Unrepentant, Jim used his free hand to card his fingers through the luxuriant chest hair. With seemingly all his attention on what his hands were doing, he murmured, "These last three years don't count, babe. You're only twenty-six, which makes you eleven years younger than me." He raised his gaze from the other man's chest and, seeing the sudden look of vulnerability in the azure eyes, smiled and reassured, "No, age doesn't mean anything to me." As tension seeped out of the compact body, Jim said, "Sorry, Chief. I was only curious." 

"It's okay, Jim." Blair kissed him slowly and lovingly. "I'm sorry, too. I need to learn not to jump to conclusions." 

Feeling the still-hard shaft rubbing against him, Ellison countered, "From what I can feel, you're not doing too much jumping at anything." Provocatively, he pressed his thigh up against the sensitive underside of Sandburg's cock. Rewarded by a quick gasp and muttered curse, he grinned broadly and offered innocently, "Want me to do something about that swelling, Chief? It can't be good for you." 

Sandburg was beyond speech at this point. Moaning, he pushed up against the other man, desperately seeking friction for his aching shaft. A tender smile on his face, Ellison reached over and bodily lifted the shorter man atop him. Parting his thighs, he felt Blair's engorged cock slip between them, nudging his testicles. Incredibly, his protested old age aside, Ellison felt himself filling again. 

Lifting and locking his long legs around the sturdy body, Ellison started a gentle rocking motion. Moving back against him, Sandburg grasped his lover's face with both hands and savagely kissed him. Tongues and cocks dueled frantically. For a long, intensely pleasurable time, the only sounds in the loft were incoherent mutters and passion-rich moans. Abruptly, Sandburg twisted up and then plunged down, body shaking with the force of his coming. Moments later, Ellison let out a long, low groan and followed him into orgasm. 

Stroking the younger man as though he were a beloved pet, Jim basked in the afterglow. He waited until both of their respiration rates had returned to normal before reaching down and pulling the blanket at the end of the bed up and over their perspiration-soaked bodies. 

<<<>>>

Drifting along in a pleasant lassitude, Blair was abruptly assaulted by a foul odor and bone-chilling cold. Bolting out of the big bed, he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that Ellison was already halfway around the piece of furniture. 

God, Jim moves fast, was his distracted thought before a deep, mocking laugh drove all other thoughts out of his mind. 

"Sorry, boys." The derisive, jeering voice came from the top of the stairs. "If I'd known I would be interrupting something important, I would've knocked first." 

Eli Stoddard stepped out of the gathering shadows, a leering smile on his face. 

"Blair, my boy, I have to admire your taste," drawled Stoddard. He flicked a glance at the menacing Ellison, then looked back at Sandburg, adding blandly, "If you want your lovely bed toy to remain undamaged, I would suggest you control him. Now." The order was unmistakable. 

Seething silently, but not wanting to take a chance on Ellison getting hurt, Blair said quietly, "Back off, Jim. Please." 

Hands clenched impotently, Ellison obeyed. *Damn these people that just pop in and out, and damn me for getting so involved in Blair that I left my gun downstairs. That is, if a gun is even effective against someone like Stoddard.* Ham-strung for the present, Ellison studied the murderous shaman through narrowed eyes. 

At one time, Stoddard would have been the epitome of `Mr. Nobody'. Of average height, average weight, with graying blond hair, light brown eyes and round face, he would have been the sort who was constantly overlooked in a crowd. Now, it was a different matter entirely; cruelty and barbarism sparked menacingly behind his eyes, and extreme malice had left deep lines around his thin mouth. He was dressed in dirty, torn jeans, a filthy blue sweatshirt and was several days unshaven. The stench of unwashed body and human waste poured off him, and Ellison had to clamp his teeth together to fight off the nausea the smell produced. 

Busy as he was in controlling his wayward senses, Ellison barely heard Blair's soft, "What the hell do you want, Eli?" 

"What do I want, dear boy?" Stoddard laughed, showing brown, decayed teeth. "Why, I wanted to see you; to finally make your acquaintance. I think the time for all this dancing around each other has ended, don't you? After all, being as we're alike in so many ways and have so very much in common, I'm sure we can come to some amicable arrangement." 

"We have nothing in common," ground out Blair, "and I'm nothing like you. Nothing. You only believe in death and degradation. The only topic we might possibly have to discuss is where and when you want to end this." 

"You're everything I've ever heard about you, and more." Throwing back his head, Stoddard laughed merrily. "So upright, so moral, continually taking the side of the weak and helpless. Blair, you are the true embodiment of a shaman." The ridiculing look in the faded eyes made a mockery of the complimentary words. "Knowing your background as I do, it's quite a mystery how you came by these lovely qualities." 

Stiffening, Blair said angrily, "What the hell do you mean by that?" 

"Easy, Chief," murmured Ellison. "Don't let him get to you." 

Stoddard beamed. "Well said, my dear Sentinel." 

"How the hell do you know what I am?" It was Ellison's turn to bristle. 

"You'd be surprised by what I know," sing-songed Stoddard. He gave another wide smile and cheerfully asked, "Care to know the whereabouts of your darling, devoted mother?" 

Growling, Ellison lunged forward. 

"Jim, don't!" Sandburg called curtly. "Take your own advice." 

Grinding his teeth, the big cop stopped in his tracks. 

"I'm not entirely without human compassion, boys." Stoddard waved airily. "Why don't I turn my back while you two get dressed?" He gave a devilish grin. "We don't want you catching cold from a draft, do we?" A slight frown crossed his forehead. "Can the dead catch cold, Blair?" 

"Go to hell, Eli," Sandburg retorted evenly. "You've been dead a lot longer than I have; you're even starting to mold-spiritually, as well as physically." 

"Not so well-mannered as I was led to believe, I see." Stoddard nodded wisely. "Go on, boys; I promise I won't look." He ostentatiously turned and faced the other way. 

Several tense minutes went by, then Ellison shrugged. "We might as well get dressed, Chief. It'll be more comfortable than standing here in the nude." 

Nerves tight, Sandburg reached for his discarded briefs and jeans. As he swiftly dressed, Jim watched his lover with a thoughtful eye. Although Blair had so far been remarkably restrained during the encounter with the other shaman, Jim was fully aware of just how on edge Sandburg actually was. The familiar heart beat was greatly elevated and his breath was coming fast and shallow. 

"Whatever happens, Jim," Blair said sotto voce, knowing the Sentinel would hear him clearly. "Don't get between Eli and me. Not ever." 

Shivering inwardly at the cold, inexorable tone in the husky voice, Ellison kept silent but nodded his understanding. At least he doesn't expect me to stay completely out of the fight. 

Once both men were fully dressed, Blair asked sharply, "What the hell did you mean by that crack about my background?" 

"He's just trying to get to you," observed Ellison sardonically. "Don't give him the satisfaction." 

"Unfortunately, my dear Detective Ellison, you are totally wrong on that account," Stoddard returned smugly. "I was making a comment based on prior personal knowledge." 

"What prior knowledge?" demanded Ellison before Blair could open his mouth. 

"Why, prior knowledge of Blair's family history, of course." Stoddard was wide-eyed with innocence. 

"I don't believe you," Blair said defiantly. "You might've had someone check into my family; but you never knew my family." 

"Not so, my dear boy. I was-intimately--acquainted with, not only your darling mother and Vince, but your father, as well." 

"You're wrong in so many ways," forced out Sandburg between gritted teeth, striving desperately to hold onto his anger and fear. "Naomi said she doesn't know who my father was; she admits she slept with quite a few guys at the commune and it could've been any one of them." 

"Ah, yes, the commune." The older shaman grinned at him. "Did you ever ask your mother which commune it was?" 

"What the hell difference does it make which commune it was?" put in Ellison, hoping to take Stoddard's attention off his lover. 

"It makes a great deal of difference, Detective," Stoddard replied, then turned back to Sandburg. "I sincerely hope Naomi has fond memories of it. I know I do. I tried very hard to make it a home away from home for all those lonely, disaffected young people." 

Panic swiftly growing in him, Blair snarled, "You're lying, you bastard. Naomi was in a commune; she was never in your filthy cult!" 

"Cult, commune, it's all a matter of semantics, really." Stoddard shrugged. "But, yes, I'm afraid Naomi, Vince and your father were all members of my happy little family. I was heart-broken when each of them decided to leave me." 

Sandburg could only stare at him numbly, head shaking in despairing denial. However fervently he wanted to rail at Stoddard, to punish him for his outrageous lies, his innate sense of fairness wouldn't allow it. Brief use of his shaman abilities had proven one thing. 

Stoddard was telling the truth. 

Temporarily forgotten, Ellison gazed at his shocked lover and felt his heart twist in empathetic pain. Wishing he was close enough to touch him, Ellison concentrated on sending supportive, loving thoughts to the younger shaman. Maybe he'd succeeded--Ellison wasn't sure--but Blair suddenly looked over at him and smiled weakly. 

Sandburg _had_ received Ellison's comforting thoughts. Somewhat bolstered by the thought that he wasn't alone, Sandburg took a deep breath and gathered his energy to continue the confrontation. 

The crazed shaman was gazing at him benevolently. "I see you've decided to believe me." Stoddard nodded. "That's good; I hate quarreling." 

"Perhaps." Sandburg was non-committal. "If they were there, tell me why they left." 

"You're testing me!" cried Eli delightedly. "That's so childish, but I'll play along. I'm sure you know why Naomi left; she'd have nothing to lose by telling the truth." He shrugged elaborately. "She had never gotten along with Samuel Sandburg. Being at the commune was her way of giving your grandfather a slap in the face, but she wasn't truly happy with us. She'd sleep with anybody who so much as looked at her, but, even though she was only seventeen, she had some very expensive tastes and our poor, impoverished facility just couldn't supply them," Stoddard told Blair confidentially. "When she got word the old man had died in a car crash, she was out of there like a shot." 

Hands balling, but refusing to rise to the bait, Sandburg said levelly, "Vince?" 

"Ah, dear Vincent." For the first time, the smile was wiped from Stoddard's round face. "He didn't care for the direction of my teachings; objected most strenuously, in fact. If I'd known he would become my Judas, he would never have been allowed to join us. Just be glad, my dear boy, that there was never a need for a banker to handle a shotgun, or you might have discovered-just as I did-that it bodes ill for your future to turn your back on him. It gave me a great deal of pleasure yesterday to avenge that betrayal." 

"Good for Vince," interjected Ellison. "No court in the country would've convicted him. In fact, he probably would've gotten a medal from the president." Although Blair was concealing it well, Ellison could feel the hurt and betrayal at Deal's deception. 

Stoddard glared at him, unamused. "You are beginning to become tiresome, Detective." There was an ominous tone to his voice now. 

Hurriedly sliding in front of his lover, Sandburg drawled, "I can't wait to hear who your twisted mind picked out as my father. Who was your candidate?" He disregarded the annoyed growl from behind him. 

"Was, dear boy?" Stoddard was diverted. Never one to overlook a chance to show off in any way, he went on, "I assure you, the man is still very much alive. I don't believe he's exactly-accessible--any longer, but he is alive." 

"What do you mean, not accessible?" demanded Ellison. More than a little irritated at the idea that he might need protection, Jim was fighting the instinctive urge to move Sandburg aside. But he'd promised Blair that he would not physically get between the two shamans and, rationally, he knew he could not fight Stoddard on his own level. Jim despised the idea of appearing weak before a criminal, but his logical side won over. However, that didn't mean he had to remain silent. 

"Simply that I don't know how easy it would be to see him." Stoddard shrugged again. "You would know that sort of information better than I, Detective." Addressing Ellison, but keeping his mocking eyes on Sandburg, he asked ingenuously, "How difficult is it to visit someone serving a life sentence at Corcoran State Prison in California?" 

Blair gasped and whitened, but didn't lose his resolute expression. 

"Are you sure you really wish to know, dear boy?" Eli was clearly enjoying Sandburg's discomfiture. 

"Yes. Or are you afraid that'll I find you out for the liar you are?" 

"As you wish." Stoddard's smile was frankly malicious. "Shortly before your mother left us, your father talked several of my other, more easily-led, followers into going with him to warmer climes...southern California, to be precise. Five weeks after moving there, they all indulged in the rather brutal murders of seven-eight, if one counts the unborn-useless parasites in August, 1969\. The dear boy had become rather over-enthusiastic concerning my darling theory of how Armageddon is to come down upon us and had, unfortunately, given in to his impulsive nature." 

Shocked, Jim knew where this was headed. "No," he breathed, sickened, but it was too late. 

Horror stark in his face and voice, Blair stammered, "A-Are you t-trying tto tell me that m-my f-father is Charles Manson?!" 

Triumphant laughter ringing through the loft, Stoddard taunted, "Why are you so horrified? You come from a long, distinguished line, my dearest Blair. Once I'd informed him of it, your father was quite proud of his lineage. Charlie bragged of it to anyone who would listen. It's a lineage of the soul, rather than of the flesh, but it's still remarkable." 

Sandburg was no longer mentally present. Face frozen, blue topaz eyes glazed, he was staring at a point in the air over Stoddard's head. Heartsick, it took all of Ellison's considerable willpower not to rush the monstrous shaman. Unable to stop himself, he moved up behind Sandburg and pulled the younger man back against his chest. Raging within at the attack on his lover, Ellison was determined to get the best of Stoddard. 

"Lineage of the soul?" he queried coldly, impassive mask firmly in place. 

Uncaring of the deadly menace hidden behind that bland facade, Stoddard said arrogantly, "Isn't it obvious? Charlie may not have been descended by human birth from these people, but he was a true inheritor of their souls." 

"Just whom do you think are these `soul ancestors'?" Ellison didn't even attempt to hide his disbelief and contempt. 

Thin lips lifted in a sneer, Stoddard snarled, "I don't see the need to enlighten you. My wisdom is not for mutant monsters; especially one who terrified his own mother into leaving." He smiled in satisfaction as the cop paled. 

"Then tell me." The husky voice was slightly hoarse, but it was steady. 

"Ah. Back with us, dear boy?" asked Stoddard, false sympathy patent in his voice. "Finished communing with your precious Spirits, have you?" 

"Don't try to distract me." There was pure steel in Sandburg's posture and tone. His chest pressed tightly against Blair's back, Jim could feel the savage anger surging through the illusionist. "By the way," Sandburg added in an icy tone, "just for your information? The only mutant monster in this room is standing directly in front of me." 

Stoddard's smile slipped. "Now, now, no need to get haughty. I can't help it if you don't like the answers to your questions." 

"How the hell do I know I won't like the answers? You're so busy trying to convince us of your superiority, I can't get an answer to one, simple question." Blair knew he was playing with fire, but he was past caring. "Who the fuck are these supposed ancestors of mine?" 

It was brief, but Ellison was positive he'd seen confusion in Stoddard's washed-out brown eyes. *Keep it up, Chief. You're getting him off balance, and an off balance crook is easier to take down.* 

Once more, Sandburg appeared to read the cop's mind. "Well, come on, then," he insisted scornfully. "Enlighten me as to my glorious heritage." 

Angry that Sandburg wasn't reacting the way he'd intended, the deranged shaman yelled, "You think you're something special, something above me, but you're only filth! You came from the filth of a whore's womb and you've returned to the filth of an uncared-for grave! Do you honestly believe that coming from a line consisting of Alessandro deMedici, Elizabeth Bathory, Sweeny Todd, John Lynch, Aaron Kosminski and Joseph Mumfre gives you the right to lord it over me, boy?" 

Behind Sandburg, Ellison winced at the list of names. The two shamans were too involved in their argument to notice. 

"What where they, really?" spat out Eli. "Common murderers and thugs, all of them! Not one of them showed any real promise until your father. Charlie was something rare, something unique." Stoddard stopped and took a deep breath, throwing out his arms. Ellison almost gagged at the rank odor that wafted up. "Charlie was going to be my pupil, my companion, my heir. We were going to murder the world together, then bathe in its blood." 

Ellison shivered involuntarily and tightened his hold on Sandburg. *No doubt about it, the man's as loopy as a heavyweight boxer in the eighty-seventh round.* Buoyed by his spate of dark humor and grimly aware that Stoddard had not been joking about his intentions, Jim tuned back in to the verbal duel. 

"Charlie is also in prison for the rest of his life!" shot back Sandburg, seemingly no longer disturbed by the knowledge of his paternity. "Not very bright of you to let that happen. Doesn't say much for your supposedly omnipotent powers that you couldn't stop the cops from putting him away." 

Stumbling back a pace, Eli was in shock from the sheer malevolence coming from Sandburg. He had never expected to have to fight this sort of battle; he had envisioned the younger shaman collapsing, mentally and emotionally, under the weight of his father's identity. Confused and unsettled, and angry at himself for being made to feel that way, he struck back. "When Charlie was stupid enough to let himself get captured, he was no longer worthy of being my successor. I had to search for a new one. As far as I'm concerned, Charlie can rot where he is!" 

"Well, at least that's one thing we agree on," Jim muttered under his breath. He felt Blair's inner amusement at that declaration. Stoddard just glared at him. Raising his voice, Jim asked lazily, "So, have you found this promising new heir of yours? Anyone I know?" 

Visibly fighting for his equilibrium, Stoddard tried to regain control of the situation. "I thought I had, but even in the womb, he thought he was too good for me." The older shaman transferred his glare to Sandburg. "Charlie's son should've been an excellent choice; but from the moment you were conceived, it was clear that you considered yourself superior to me. The more you grew in your mother's belly, the more agitated and uneasy I became whenever I was around her. I finally realized my mounting troubles all stemmed from you; even unborn, you were constantly fighting me, undermining me. When your bitch of a mother decided to leave, I couldn't see the back of her soon enough!" Stoddard was practically foaming at the mouth. 

"Way to go, Chief!" praised Ellison loudly. He gave the illusionist an affectionate squeeze. "Even before you were born, you knew trash when you came across it." 

Grateful for his lover's approval, Blair almost missed the narrowing of Stoddard's eyes. Injecting his voice with deadly purpose, Sandburg stated coldly, "Make one move against Jim, one move of any kind, and you'll think Hell is Paradise before I'm finished with you." 

Again, Stoddard was startled by the implacable venom directed against him. Why wasn't Sandburg cringing before him, shattered by the knowledge of Vince Deal's perfidy? The younger shaman was now aware that the man he'd loved as a father had lied to him...wasn't that enough to tear him from his illusion of moral superiority? At this point, Sandburg should have been a quivering, destroyed wretch, good only for retreating to his grave with his tail tucked between his legs like a defeated hound. 

Gathering his resolve firmly to himself, Stoddard prepared to toss his last bomb. "Yes, I knew you would never agree to become my heir. Those old fools of shaman in the tribes you visited completely brainwashed you, turned you against the true nature and possibilities of your talents. If you weren't going to be with me, I damn well wasn't going to let you be against me." A dreadful parody of a smile played across the twisted mouth. "It wasn't that difficult to turn dear Samantha against you. She was already feeling humiliated and betrayed by your obvious preference for the male of the species. Samantha knew she was just being used as a decoy to keep the university's regents off your back." 

Sandburg was impervious to any further gibes. Ignoring the soft gasp from behind him, he said conversationally, "That doesn't surprise me in the slightest. You two probably got along very well together; both of you are madder than a hatter." Again sensing Stoddard drawing upon his powers, Blair continued easily, "Don't start anything you can't finish, Eli. Are you really certain you can best me?" 

Uncomfortably uncertain for the first time in his existence, Stoddard hesitated. He had never before been so fiercely challenged. Pride severely dented, he knew he needed to withdraw until he could come up with some plan to catch the younger shaman off guard. Refusing to contemplate the notion that the younger man might prove to be the more powerful, Stoddard searched for a face-saving way of giving in. 

"You're correct, dear boy; this isn't the time or the place." Smiling cavalierly, the older man attempted to project an air of insouciant control. "You know where to find me when you finally want to end this pathetic conflict." 

Blair lifted an eyebrow in silent query. 

"You've always known; you've just been too afraid to realize it. Oh, and just for _your_ information--when you finally gather the courage to confront me, leave your plaything at home. I won't be playing favorites and the freak could get himself hurt." 

Seconds later, Stoddard was gone, his last taunt lingering in the suddenly chilled air. 

"That madman is definitely well-balanced," Ellison commented blandly. "He has a chip on both shoulders." 

"He's right, you know." Sandburg's voice was as cool and unconcerned as if he were discussing the weather. Pulling out of Ellison's arms, he walked a few steps away. 

Opening his mouth to protest against the idea that Stoddard could be right about anything, Jim snapped it shut as Blair went on. 

"I believe I do know where he's been hiding. I just didn't know I knew, you know?" Sandburg gave a weak smile at his wordplay. 

Hiding his aching heart, Ellison went along with his lover's clear need for prosaic conversation. "Where's that, Chief?" 

"Naomi once told me that her old...commune." Blair stumbled slightly over the word. Ellison affected not to notice. "....was around Cascade somewhere; northeast, I think she said. Need I say more?" He grinned. 

Mentally wincing at the travesty of Blair's usual smile, Ellison offered, "We could look up the exact location on the PD's computer." 

"Why there? I assure you, Eli Stoddard is not in any police computer." 

Anxiety rising rapidly, Ellison fought to keep his attention on the conversation. "No, but your...Charles Manson would be. All it would take would be a background check." 

"Ah, yes." Again that fleeting smile. Blair turned and headed for the stairs. "That would be a good place to start." 

"Chief...Blair. Don't!" burst out Jim. 

Trapped by the panic in the other man's usually controlled tones, Sandburg halted, one hand on the stair railing. Closing his eyes against the roiling of emotions within himself, he whispered, "Don't what, Jim?" 

"Don't shut me out. Don't act as though you aren't being torn apart by what Stoddard said." Jim knew he was practically begging, but he didn't care. He was losing Blair-he could feel it-and that triggered a terror in him that he had never felt in his entire, loss-filled life. "You don't have to keep it to yourself; I understand, I really do. Please let me help." 

Blair shook his head; then, without his volition, the shaking spread downward until his entire body was trembling. Jim darted forward, hands outstretched. Sensing the movement, Blair jerked away, almost pitching himself down the loft steps in his carelessness. 

"No!" choked out Sandburg, voice thick and unrecognizable. "Don't touch me, man!" Having no trouble hearing the incipient hysteria in his own voice, Blair shivered into silence. 

He stood there, trembling uncontrollably. The young shaman kept his eyes clenched shut, unable to look at the expression of disgust and horror he knew must be present in Ellison's cornflower blue eyes--those beautiful eyes which reflected the equally beautiful soul within. Abruptly, two large hands were on his shoulders and he started, badly. Sandburg distantly realized that he had shut himself completely off and was, consequently, no more aware than a normal, living human. Ellison moved as stealthily as a stalking jungle cat; he had not heard him approach. 

"Why can't I touch you, babe?" It was Jim's voice, low and warm. "Do you think I don't want to? Do you believe that what Stoddard said has made me change my mind about you?" 

"You _can't_ want to touch me," Blair cried despairingly. "My god, how could you?! Not only am I a decomposed, deviant dead thing; I'm descended from a long line of criminally insane perverts. Madmen whose idea of a little cheerful, fun-loving recreation is mass murder, cannibalism and blood drinking!" Shaking his head again, Sandburg mumbled, "Let me go, Jim. I-I promise I won't bother you again. I'll deal with Stoddard, then go wherever the hell I'm supposed to go." 

"No." 

It took several seconds for the definite, harsh tone to register, but when it did, Blair was confused enough to turn and cautiously open his eyes. The expression in the eyes watching him so closely made him catch his breath. Unconsciously basking in the love and devotion radiating brightly from the blue orbs, Blair swayed toward the larger man. 

"Jim?" he breathed, voice hushed and wondering. 

"No," repeated Ellison firmly. "No, I will not let you leave-not now, not ever. No, I will not let you deal with Stoddard alone." He crushed the shorter man against him. In a voice like raw silk, he vowed, "I love you, Blair Sandburg. I love you, and nothing anyone tells me is ever going to change that. Do you understand me? I. Love. You." Ellison punctuated each of the last three words with quick kisses. 

"But, Jim." Heart swelling, Blair still felt he should protest, should somehow force Ellison into seeing just what a poor bargain he was getting. 

"But nothing. If you don't believe me, just do your shaman thing." 

Burying his face in a broad shoulder, Sandburg didn't fight the tears trickling down his cheeks. Ellison felt the cool wetness dampening his shirt and he smiled sadly. Rocking his lover gently back and forth, he crooned soothing nonsense into the nearest ear. 

When he judged that Sandburg was calmer and better able to understand him, Jim said quietly, "As for your so-called background, Chief; if I were you, I'd take that with a grain of salt. Even if what Stoddard said was all true, it still means nothing. You are you: you are not your mother, you are not your father, you are not your supposed ancestors. You are Blair Sandburg; a beautiful, loving, compassionate person and someone held in very high esteem by some pretty powerful Spirits. They wouldn't have chosen you for this job if that wasn't true. Yeah, you're living challenged, but what the hell, everyone has their faults." 

A soggy laugh came from Ellison's shoulder. "I like that-`living challenged'." Sniffing ferociously, Blair finally raised his head and met tender blue eyes. "Are you sure, Jim?" he queried, searching his lover's face anxiously. 

"I'm sure, babe," reassured Ellison, softly kissing each damp eye. 

Overwhelmed, Blair stretched up just that little bit and took the sensuous lips. Mouth open wide, tongue delving deeply, he tried to put every ounce of his love and gratitude into the kiss. 

"I like the way you say things, Chief," commented Jim, a dopey grin on his face. 

Blair chuckled and stepped back. "I'll have to remember that." 

Ellison grinned again, then his smile slowly faded as he gazed intently at the younger man. "Are you all right?" he asked somberly. 

"Yeah, man. I'm fine." Blair gave a deep sigh, then bit his lower lip. "It's just." His eyes suddenly filled with tears again. "Why didn't he tell me, Jim? Why did Vince lie to me-especially after I came back? Why?" 

Even though Jim had been expecting that question, he didn't have a ready answer. "I don't know, Chief," he began slowly. "Before your shooting, I suppose he felt there was no need to bring up old, dirty laundry." 

"But when I came back," Sandburg said desperately, "he knew who I was looking for; I'd told him everything! Yet, he still didn't say anything to me?" 

Ellison shrugged. "Maybe he was just too afraid to tell you." 

Blair gaped at him in complete bewilderment. 

"Afraid of what you might think of him, I mean," elaborated Jim. More sure of his thoughts now, he picked up speed. "Look at it from his point of view, Chief. Twenty-nine years ago, when he realized exactly what Stoddard was doing, he knew he could save himself by just walking away from the commune. But, if he did that, Stoddard would just go on spreading his poison; there would be no one to stop his evil. Vince knew he had no choice; he knew the authorities would never believe him. So he took matters into his own hands and did what he thought was right for humanity. Technically he murdered a man in cold blood, but I, personally, have got to admire his guts and conviction in the face of an impossible situation. According to the law, however, it was murder and there was no way he was ever going to confess to anyone what he'd done-if he'd told you, even years after the fact, that would've made you an accessory to capital murder. Then, afterward, when you came back, in the midst of his joy at seeing you again, he suddenly finds out that you'd only returned to stop a man he thought he'd killed years ago. Just knowing that Stoddard never stayed in his grave probably brought him close to a heart attack; then he discovers how much you loathe and despise that mad bastard. 

"Don't you see, Chief?" Jim reached up and grabbed both of the younger man's shoulders. "Vince was afraid. He was terrified that you would come to hate him, too, if you found out he'd ever been associated with Stoddard in any way. He couldn't--wouldn't--take that chance, Blair. Deal loved you like a son; he wouldn't take the chance that you'd walk out on him if you knew the truth." 

"I couldn't hate Vince, Jim," protested Sandburg. "No matter what he'd done!" 

"But Vince didn't know that, and he didn't know how to ask without giving away his secrets." 

"Poor Vince," murmured Blair after a short silence. "I can't honestly condemn him for what he did all those years ago; I mean, I'm getting ready to do the exact same thing basically, aren't I? I just wish I could've told him so." He gave a huge sigh; then, looking up at his lover, grinned faintly. "Sorry for the histrionics, man." 

"No problem." Jim shrugged again. "If I'd been in your shoes, I would've been a little upset, too." 

"'A little upset'!" echoed Sandburg, scoffing. "Yeah, I guess you can call it that." He glanced up at the cop, a frown pulling the mobile brows together. "Uh, this is going to sound more than a little strange, I admit, but those people Eli mentioned?" 

"Yeah?" It was said encouragingly. 

It was now Sandburg's turn to shrug. "I don't know who half of them are. Who the hell were those last three?" 

"John Lynch, Aaron Kosminski and Joseph Mumfre?" 

Sandburg nodded in confirmation. 

Slightly uneasy, but knowing he had to answer honestly, Ellison said briskly, "Lynch was an Australian convicted of the murder of his family back in the 1840's; while Aaron Kosminski was one of the leading suspects for being Jack the Ripper. Joseph Mumfre was suspected by the New Orleans police at the beginning of the twentieth century to be the New Orleans Ax Man; he attacked nine people with an ax and five of them died." 

"Oh, great," muttered Sandburg gloomily. "What a charming family tree. Boy, Charlie didn't fall too far from it, did he?" 

Aware that Blair was calling his father by his proper name so that he could distance himself from the biological relationship, Ellison also noted-with relief-that the younger man had evidently come to terms with the unwelcome knowledge of his paternity. 

"No, Charlie didn't," agreed the cop readily. "But his son is a far different matter altogether." 

Grateful beyond words for the other man's unconditional support, Blair smiled at him. Then, feeling he should do more, he leaned over and kissed him. 

After catching his breath, Ellison forced himself to return to the dangerous business at hand. "Not that I want to, but we need to get going, Chief," he said regretfully. "We need to get down to the PD and run those records. Stoddard has to be stopped." 

Blair nodded and stepped back, dark eyes serious. "You're right, Jim, but we can't rush into this. There are several things to consider first." 

"Such as?" 

"First, the best time to approach Eli would be at dawn or during the day; he'll be expecting us to try to sneak in while it's dark. Secondly, we need certain items that I must prepare a specific way, and that will take a few hours." 

"Okay." Ellison bowed to the shaman's greater knowledge. "Why don't I run over to the PD and find out where he's hiding while you do your thing? I'm sure my kitchen is woefully under-supplied of your needed materials, but you can use the facilities at least." 

"That would be great, Jim. Thanks." Sandburg gave a half-grin. "It might be best for you to be gone while I do this, anyway. Even I have to admit that it's going to get pretty smelly around here while I mix the potions. Heaven only knows what the raw products will do to your Sentinel senses." 

Ellison grimaced and, jogging down the stairs from the loft, went over to the hooks beside the door to retrieve his jacket. Looking up at the man standing by the loft railing, he asked, "If that stuff smells that bad, am I going to be able to be in the same general vicinity with it?" 

Laughing, Sandburg started down the stairs. "Don't worry, Jim. I promise not to gas you out or anything." 

"I'm going to hold you to that, Chief." Ellison winked at him and opened the door. Halfway through, he stopped and, not turning around, said diffidently, "I'll meet you here in a couple of hours, right?" His back was rigid. 

Blair clearly heard the unvoiced plea. "Yes, Jim; we'll meet here." *It wouldn't do any good for me to leave, even if I knew exactly where Eli is hiding. You would only follow. Maybe this way, if I keep you with me, I can protect you better.* 

The relieved sigh echoed through the airy apartment. His back losing a great deal of its tension, Ellison said quietly, "See you in a few, then." 

<<<>>>

Muttering to himself about incompetent criminals who thought eleven o'clock at night was the perfect hour for their stupidity, Simon Banks blasted through the doors of Major Crime and came to a dead halt at the sight of his senior detective. More relieved than he would have cared to admit at seeing the other man at his desk, Banks pasted a scowl on his face. 

"So," he drawled sarcastically, "you do remember you have a job. That was quite a lunch hour, Ellison; it's only been about ten hours since you left." 

His derision fell on deaf ears. "Sorry, Simon," Ellison said absently, not looking up from his computer monitor, "I had something important to do this afternoon." 

Huffing, Banks caved in, but growled, "Okay; just don't let it happen again, Detective." Then, giving in to the worry that had been plaguing him ever since Ellison had left word that he wouldn't be returning that afternoon, Simon asked carefully, "Uh, Jim...you didn't do anything I should know about, did you? Professionally speaking, that is." 

Hearing the worry, Ellison stared blankly up at his friend. Understanding hitting him, he grinned and shook his head. "No, Simon. I promise there was no mayhem or bloodshed." He added under his breath, "At least not yet." 

Giving another huffing sigh-this one of relief-Banks grinned back. "What are you up to?" he asked, more out of rote than real curiosity. His mind was already back on the current problem. "Did something come back on that fake Sandburg?" 

"Uh, no." Ellison answered slowly. "But it does pertain to the case." 

Mind already busily planning on how he was going to explain, to a constantly irate police commissioner, three wrecked police cruisers and one senior citizen cat burglar who had been plucked from the ornamental fountain in front of the mayor's residence, Banks just mumbled, "Uh huh," and nodded vaguely. He vanished into his office and closed the door behind him. 

Eyes closing in relief, Ellison congratulated himself and returned his attention to the computer monitor. He had just found the pertinent information when the door to Banks' office opened. With a sinking heart, the detective realized he had assumed victory too soon. 

"If it's not about that phony magician," Banks inquired curiously, "how does it relate to the case?" 

"Umm." Mind racing, Ellison frantically tried to come up with a believable answer. 

Innate curiosity already aroused, Simon was even more suspicious at Ellison's uncharacteristic hesitation. To his amazement, Banks saw the slight flush climbing his detective's neck. Highly intrigued by this, the police captain prodded in a silky voice, "Jim?" 

There was no immediate reply, just a deepening of Ellison's flush. His jaw muscle clenched and jumped. 

Knowing the jumping jaw muscle was an indicator of intense emotion for Ellison, Banks came up behind the other man and looked over his shoulder at the computer monitor. Eyes widening in surprise at the information displayed, he demanded gruffly, "Mind telling me just how the hell Charles Manson fits into this murder investigation, Detective?" 

There was no answer, just a surge of tension. 

There's something strange going on here, concluded Banks. Something I don't believe I want to know. But, as captain, I have to know. Coming to a swift decision, he reached over and tapped Ellison on the shoulder. "Shut down the computer, Jim. I want you in my office. Now." 

"Sir." Moving mechanically, Ellison turned off his computer and, extremely reluctantly, followed Banks into his office. Once inside, he came to parade rest in front of the desk and locked a blank expression on his face. 

Seeing that look, Banks sighed as he seated himself behind his desk. This is going to be like prying secrets from the Sphinx. Steeling himself for the coming ordeal, Simon leaned forward, and steepled his hands on his deskpad. "Talk to me, Detective," he ordered harshly. 

"About what, sir?" Tight with rigidly-held tension, Ellison involuntarily jumped when Banks slammed both hands onto his desk. 

"Don't give me that bullshit, Ellison!" yelled Banks, stabbing a finger at him. "I want the truth, and I want it now. First, you disappear for over ten hours, then I find you researching thirty year old crimes. I want you to explain to me, simply and succinctly, just how Charles Manson figures in with a con man magician and three horrific murders!" 

For long, tense minutes, it appeared Ellison was not going to answer. Just as Banks was opening his mouth to threaten the detective with a suspension if a satisfactory explanation was not forthcoming, Ellison let out a sigh that seemed to have come from his feet. Dropping onto the chair in front of the desk, he rubbed both hands over his face. 

"He's not a con man." 

The sentence was so low and mumbled, Banks was unsure if he'd heard it correctly. "What did you say?" 

Ellison's head came up and he looked his friend in the eye. "I said," he repeated clearly, "Blair is not a con man." 

Still irritated, Banks forced himself to stay calm. "Jim, I know how exceptional your hearing is, remember? I know you heard Ms. Sandburg tell us this afternoon that her son died three years ago." 

"Yeah, I heard her," admitted Ellison. 

"Then, can you tell me why you persist in calling that man `Blair'? Or why you deny that he's a con man?" 

Once more, no immediate answer was forthcoming as Ellison fought with himself over what he was going tell his captain. 

"Ellison, I want coherent answers and I'm not going to ask you again." Banks' formidable temper was hanging by a very thin thread. "If Blair Sandburg died three years ago, how the hell can he be performing as Shaman now?" 

Ah, you have now asked the sixty-four thousand dollar question, Ellison thought semi-hysterically. All bad jokes aside, he knew he was out of time. Banks was perfectly capable of locking him in an interrogation room until he got the answers he wanted. Ellison couldn't afford the delay. 

Swallowing, he looked helplessly over at his friend and said desperately, "You're not going to believe me, Simon; but I swear to god, it's all true." 

The dark face remained implacable. "Try me." 

Taking a deep breath, Ellison blurted out, "Blair was a shaman before he died, so the spirits sent him back to deal with an evil shaman, who is also dead, but is trying to destroy the world." 

Banks didn't even blink. "Repeat that. Slower this time, and with a little more corroborating information." 

Twenty minutes later, Simon Banks was reaching for a cigar. Against the PD's strict rules, he shakily lit it and inhaled the tobacco deeply. 

Ellison mumbled sullenly, "I told you that you wouldn't believe me." 

"Believe you?! Jim." Essentially speechless, Simon Banks sat there and stared at his detective. Inside, however, his brain was whirling madly. *Has this magician hypnotized Jim in some way? Did he get into something that's overloaded his senses? Is it bad enough that I should get him to a doctor immediately?* 

Before he could censor himself, Banks had asked Ellison those very questions. 

"Jesus, Simon!" Ellison jumped to his feet and began pacing. "Whatever happened to trust between friends? Why is the first thing you assume is that I'm not in my right mind?" 

"Why?" For several seconds, Banks floundered helplessly. Then he shouted, "Because it's utterly ludicrous, that's why! The last time I heard a story that preposterous was back when I was reading bedtime fables to my son!" He ignored Jim's tart question about friendship and trust; inwardly, Simon acknowledged a direct hit on his conscience. 

Ellison stopped pacing and glared at him. 

"Don't give me that look, Ellison," snapped the police captain. "How the hell can you expect me to believe anything as outrageous as that yarn? If I tried to tell the governor of Idaho that his favorite niece was murdered by a insane, dead witch doctor, he would have me in a strait jacket before I finished the first sentence!" 

"So what do you want me to do?" demanded Ellison heatedly. "You force me to tell you what's going on; I tell you and you accuse me of being either stupid or insane. So just tell me what the fuck you want me to do!" 

"What the fuck do I want you to do?" echoed Banks, temper unleashed. He jumped to his feet. "I want you to go home, damn it! Go home, and stay there. You are officially off this case. It's late Monday night, I don't want to see your face around here until Friday morning. By then, I'll have decided whether to send you for mandatory psychiatric evaluation, or suspend you for trying to pull this bullshit on me!" 

"Yes, sir," replied Ellison stiffly. Anger masking his very real feelings of hurt and betrayal, he marched out of the office. 

As the door slammed shut behind the detective, Banks dropped into his chair and buried his head in his hands, swearing softly. 

<<<>>>

Face tight with controlled anger, Ellison let himself into the loft and ripped his jacket off, throwing it at a chair. 

"Hard day at the office, dear?" inquired a falsetto voice from behind him. 

Unable to keep the grin from forming, Ellison rubbed at his neck, tension easing. "You could say that." Not wanting to discuss what had occurred in Banks' office while his emotions still felt so raw, he changed the subject. "You get all your potions brewed?" 

Fixing Ellison with a sapient look, Blair murmured softly, "That won't work with me, Jim. I can read your emotions quite clearly; they're as turbulent as the wildest storm. What happened?" 

Drawing himself up to his full height, Ellison glared furiously at the younger man. 

Sandburg met the glare with compassion. "What happened," he repeated quietly, "to make you so angry?" 

Fury collapsing under the weight of the understanding gaze, Ellison sighed and propped himself against the wooden support pillar in the living room. "Simon--that is, Captain Banks--came into the bullpen and managed to see my computer monitor. He wanted to know what the correlation was between the current murders and the stuff I was researching." 

"He doesn't ask the easy questions, does he?" mused Sandburg rhetorically. "Hey, what was he doing there so late? Has something else happened?" He held his breath in apprehension. 

"No. He'd gone home, but some other problem brought him back in. He wouldn't have come in this late for any other reason. I didn't ask what...I didn't get the chance." 

Suddenly, Blair knew what had transpired between Ellison and his captain. "He demanded an answer, and you told him the truth, didn't you." It wasn't a question. "I take it he was a trifle disbelieving?" 

"Disbelieving?! That would be the understatement of the fucking century! He only asked if I had let you hypnotize me or, if not that, if I'd gotten into something that screwed with my senses. Then he took me off the case and threatened to send me for psychiatric evaluation or suspend me for disciplinary measures," Ellison finished bitterly. "He wouldn't even consider that I had told him the truth. We've worked together for five years, been friends for almost as long, and he wouldn't even consider believing me." 

Sandburg heard the pain beneath the bitterness and his heart ached. "Can you really blame him, my love?" He came up to the cop and placed a tender palm against a flushed cheek. "Captain Banks is only reacting as his character and career would have him react. To believe such a tale goes against everything he has ever experienced or was taught." 

Ellison leaned into the hand caressing his cheek. "But he accepted me, the Sentinel, without hesitation," he objected. "Why won't he accept this?" 

"I suspect it's all a matter of degree," replied Blair, eyes thoughtful. Lowering his hand, he drew back a little and began to pace. "Your abilities, your skills--they can all be proven empirically. He has solid proof. This situation?" Blair shrugged. "How can you prove what's happening? Ask me to demonstrate my abilities? I can't; it goes against all the rules and there could be dreadful consequences if I tried. I was only able to show you because of our soul connection. Exhume my grave? That would only show that my body is no longer where it should be; it wouldn't verify your story. It would be the same if they dug up Eli-if they could even discover where Vince buried him. All the police would have is two corpses missing from their graves." 

"He could trust me," muttered Ellison doggedly. 

"Yes, he could," agreed Sandburg, a sad smile on his lips. "But I don't believe Captain Banks has that sort of trust _in_ him, Jim. It's not your fault; it's not mine. Honestly, it's not even really his--it's just the way his life experiences have molded him. I wish I had a better explanation for you, but I don't." 

"It's okay, Chief." Ellison gave him a crooked grin. Reaching out, he snagged one capable hand and reeled the shaman in, closing both arms around him. "I guess it doesn't matter if Simon believes me or not. It doesn't change what you and I have to do." 

"But what are you going to tell him, you know, afterward?" queried Sandburg, suddenly fretful. "Eli will be gone, but you still won't have a viable suspect for the murders. I hate the thought of all those officers wasting their time trying to apprehend a criminal who doesn't exist, when they could be dealing with criminals who do. It's awful enough that Cynthia's and Ricardo's families will be denied closure and the knowledge that justice has been meted out. Vince's family won't care one way or the other," he said sadly. "All they'll be concerned about is the scandal of his murder, and how well they can hide it from `proper' society." 

"There's nothing we can do about the Reynolds and Ricardo families, Chief," Jim declared gravely. "It goes against everything I've ever believed in to leave them hanging like that, but we have no other choice. We certainly can't tell them the truth. At best, they wouldn't believe it; at worst, they could accuse the PD of incompetence and negligence." Jim planted a kiss between the wide eyes. "As for the cops; yeah, they'll continue searching for a culprit. Since Cynthia was the niece of a governor and a cop was killed, the case will stay active for months yet. But, as time goes by with no new developments and fresh cases with workable leads pile up, Banks will be forced to pull men off. Eventually, the file will end up in a box marked `Cold Cases', and will only get pulled out to look over when someone has a spare minute." 

"Okay, I get that. I don't like it, but I get it," Sandburg accepted with a grimace. "But what are we going to tell Captain Banks about me? It's easy enough for Shaman to retire from the stage; but Banks won't give up on me, particularly after talking with Naomi. He's going to be on my case constantly; it'll make life hell for you at work." 

"No, it won't." Stopping Sandburg's incipient interruption by placing a finger over the full lips, Ellison said serenely, "It won't be an issue because, after we take care of Stoddard, I'm going to turn in my resignation. We'll move somewhere they have never heard of either Blair Sandburg or Jim Ellison, and start over." 

"Jim, you can't!" protested Blair, horrified. "You're a Sentinel; it's in your genes to protect and serve. You can't just give it up; especially for me. I won't let you!" 

"Hush, babe, shush...it's all right," soothed Ellison, stroking chestnut curls away from the agitated face. "I never said I was going to give up being a Sentinel; I don't think I could even if I wanted to do so." He smiled as most of the worry left the expressive face. "But there are other ways to protect and serve, aren't there? I don't think I could work for Banks any longer, not after tonight. How about a forest ranger, protecting and serving the animals and the environment? Would you like that? You and me, all alone in the middle of a forest somewhere?" 

"Oh, man, that would be fantastic, Jim!" Blair threw his arms around the other man and kissed him soundly. 

"I guess that's settled, then," the Sentinel decided smugly. 

Ellison was well aware that he was tempting Fate by acting as though Sandburg's defeat of Stoddard was a foregone conclusion. He also knew that he was compounding that sin by optimistically planning their future together, but he had to plan ahead. Jim could not bring himself to even contemplate the thought of a life without Blair. That he might be forced to wait until after he, himself, had died or until they were both reincarnated, was something Ellison was not prepared to do. He had believed Sandburg when the shaman had told him they would be together again, even if it wasn't immediately, but Jim needed Blair now. Whenever the thought of Blair leaving him attempted to steal into his conscious mind, Ellison experienced a panicky terror that threatened to destroy him. 

Like Ellison, Sandburg was also refusing to dwell on a possible negative outcome from his upcoming battle with Stoddard. Unlike him, however, Blair had thought about what could happen afterward, and possibly being forced to leave the physical world. Blair truly believed that he and Jim would be together again, either in the spiritual realm or in another life. As a shaman, he was also fully aware that time was indeed relative; he knew it flowed at a different speed in the spiritual world than it did in the world of the concrete. Yet, the thought of being without Jim, even if it only felt like days or a few weeks at the most, caused Blair's heart to twist painfully. He loved Jim; there was no more, and no less, than that. Once more, Sandburg sent out a plea, praying the Spirits were listening and in an accommodating mood. I just want to be with Jim; I'm not asking for the return of the mortal life stolen from me. All I want is to be with Jim, to love and cherish him, until the end of his natural days. Then we will happily go onto wherever we're destined. That's all we want, honestly...to go together. That's not too much to ask, is it? 

<<<>>>

As the first, wan rays of the sun tried to break through the heavy cloud cover, the Expedition bucked its way down a severely rutted and potholed track. Daring to take his eyes off the dangerous road for a few seconds, Ellison shot a glance at the man in the passenger seat. From the moment they had turned off the highway onto a little-used secondary road, Sandburg had gone still and silent. The shaman had retreated further into himself when they had turned onto the unmaintained track that led along the southern edge of the Cascade National Forest. The meager reflected light in the cab from the Expedition's headlights was enough for the Sentinel to see the grim, set look on the illusionist's face. Knowing that Sandburg was girding himself, mentally and physically, for the upcoming confrontation, Ellison held his silence and concentrated on his driving. 

It had taken two hours from Ellison's loft to reach this lonely road. Wanting to arrive at the commune after the sun was up, Jim had suggested they leave his condo no sooner than five in the morning. Sandburg had readily agreed and had then instructed the cop on the protective properties of the four tiny cloth bundles sitting on the cooking island. Wrinkling his nose at the rancid smell emanating from them, Ellison had indicated his understanding. Privately, however, he'd wondered if the odoriferous packages wouldn't attract Stoddard more than they would repel him. 

That necessary duty accomplished, Blair had just stood there, for long moments, looking at Ellison. Without a word, the shaman had held out his hand and, equally as silently, Ellison had taken it. Allowing himself to be towed up the loft stairs, Jim had eagerly fallen into the romantic, loving mood Sandburg had striven so hard to establish. For the next five hours, they had, time and again, physically reaffirmed their love and fealty to each other. Words of promise and devotion were softly murmured over and over. Each man willingly offered up his body on the altar of love; each man accepted the offering with endless gratitude and tenderness. 

When Ellison had announced, in a voice deepened with regret and apprehension, that it was time to leave, Blair had just nodded and quietly slid out of the big bed. In a silence broken only by the rustle of clothing as it was donned, the two lovers had prepared themselves for the upcoming showdown. At the door to the loft, having stopped to gather up the medicine bundles, Blair halted the larger man by putting one hand on the wide chest. Slowly, reverently, he had drawn his lover's head down and laid claim to Ellison's mouth. 

Lifting his head at the end of the ferocious, yet tender, kiss, Jim had smiled lovingly. "Back at `cha, Chief," he'd whispered into the silky curls. Running two fingers down the precious face, Ellison had smiled once more then, removing his hand, he'd opened the loft door and ushered his lover out. 

A harsh, indrawn breath from Sandburg brought Ellison's mind back from its wanderings. 

"Stop the truck, Jim." 

Ellison obediently pulled the SUV over as far as he could along the tree line. "What is it, Chief?" 

"We're here." 

Spine crawling at that terse announcement, Ellison sent out his vision and hearing to scout the area around them. After some moments of strained silence, the Sentinel shook his head in frustration. "There's nothing out there, Chief; I looked and listened. Are you sure?" 

"Oh, yeah," whispered Blair. He stared off to their right for several seconds, then he said, "Eli has wards placed all around the track approach to the commune; not even your senses can penetrate them. We'll have to hike the last three or four miles." 

"Three or four miles? Why did we stop so soon?" 

"He'll be expecting us to arrive by road. Remember, Eli is so sure of his superiority, he doesn't believe anyone else can use strategic thinking. He certainly won't consider that one, or the both of us, are capable of thinking out of the box. Eli's ego won't let him believe anything but that he left us totally confused back at your place. He's certain that I'm much too emotionally distraught to even think, let alone plan something logically." 

Once again, Ellison bowed to the greater knowledge. "So we get out and walk the rest of the way." He turned off the engine and pulled the keys out of the ignition. The Sentinel had started to open his door when Sandburg laid a hand on his arm. 

"Just a minute, Jim. We're still not quite ready." 

"Yeah?" 

Ellison watched bemusedly as Sandburg brought out each of the tiny cloth bundles and held them up, one by one, to each of the four directions. He saw the shaman's lips move but, even with his enhanced hearing, he was unable to ascertain what the other man was saying. 

His prayer for protection ended, Blair said quietly, "You can get out now. But it'll be just a few minutes longer before we can go." 

Climbing out of the Expedition, Ellison slammed the door shut and walked around to stand next to Blair. His lover looked up at him with a strange smile and cautioned, "You might not want to be standing so close to me, man; not for the next few minutes, anyway." 

Puzzled, but obliging, Ellison backed away a few paces. 

Eyes closed, face uplifted to the gloomy sky, Blair started to chant, softly and indistinctly, in a language unknown to Ellison but which seemed oddly familiar all the same. As the alien words grew more distinct, the cop became aware that the usual dawn chorus of birdsong had ceased; even the small woodland animals had fallen silent. The entire surrounding forest seemed to be waiting, with bated breath, for something to occur. The air grew heavy and expectant. Fighting the sudden prickling along his spine, Jim continued to watch the shaman through narrowed eyes. Maybe he was imagining it, but, no, it was happening. 

Sandburg was glowing. Incredibly, even through the heavy, gray cloud cover, a shaft of brilliant sunlight shot down to engulf the sturdy figure. As the chant grew louder and louder, a white aura flowed from the shaman, spreading out to encompass several feet around his body. The glow pulsed in time to the rhythmic words. 

Abruptly, Sandburg flung out his arms, calling loudly, "Averah! Averah!" At those words, the whiteness surrounding him flared into an incandescent ball of light so hurtfully bright, the watching Sentinel had to fling up a hand to shield his eyes and partially turn away. 

Shaking his head while he blinked away the residual dots and sparkles from his vision, Ellison quickly turned back. He found Sandburg looking at him, a worried expression on his face. The glow was gone. Around them, the day birds had re-started their calls; the squirrels and chipmunks once more dashed along the tree branches and across the ground. 

"Are you all right, Jim?" asked Blair, coming up to him. He put out a hand, then drew it back. 

"Yeah," replied Ellison, swiftly regaining his mental equilibrium. He had noticed Blair's aborted gesture, and believed he understood its cause. Grinning, Ellison said lightly, "Warn me the next time you're going to do that; I'll have my sunglasses ready." 

"Okay," responded Sandburg. His smile was wan, but there. "For a minute, I was afraid that I'd blinded you." 

Seeing the look of dreadful doubt that Sandburg couldn't quite mask, Jim brought up both his hands to cup the worried face. Staring deeply into the azure eyes, he said calmly, "I love you. Nothing is going to change that." 

Sucking in an unsteady breath of utter relief, Blair closed his eyes for a moment, then reopened them. Smiling ruefully, he covered the strong hands on his face with both of his. The shaman confessed, "I was certain that you would be." He trailed off. 

"Be what?" asked Jim. "Terrified? Sickened?" 

"Yeah." Breath coming easier, Blair explained, "It's sometimes necessary for me to do that, to focus my energies-though I've never had to do it to quite this extent. At first, I used to do it early mornings in my hotel rooms, but one day, Vince saw me and it....bothered...him." A look of reminiscent pain came into the dark eyes and Blair pulled his face free, turning away. "Of course, he apologized immediately and I could tell he was sincerely sorry, but after that. I made sure I found some out of the way place so I wouldn't terrify the populace." 

Once again aching inside for the painfully lonely and isolated years Blair had suffered, Ellison said softly, "I'm sorry about that, babe; I truly am. I understand what it's like to be made to feel you're a freak and a monster; I wish to god you had never had to experience that. As for me," Ellison shrugged. "How can I be terrified or sickened by the power of your soul?" 

Shocked, Sandburg whirled to face him, mouth agape. 

"That's what I saw, wasn't it? The visible manifestation of the strength of your soul?" 

Overwhelmed yet again by Ellison's incredible ability to nonchalantly accept the more bizarre aspects of his lover, Blair could only stand and stare at the cop. At the end, all Sandburg could manage was a bald, "I love you." 

Ellison didn't need more words; he could feel the sincerity and force of that emotion pouring from Sandburg, surrounding him, caressing him, flooding his parched soul. For long, breathless moments, the world ceased for him; Jim was only aware of the exquisite love radiating from depthless azure eyes. Unthinkingly, the cop reciprocated, willingly sending all his bottomless devotion, pride and faith to his lover. 

Eventually, however, as all things must, the silent communion ended. Once more, Ellison became aware of the cool, damp forest. Taking a deep breath, Ellison smiled sadly and said, "We'd better get going, Chief." 

Equally as regretful, Blair nodded. "Yeah, we'd better." 

The re-gathering of his energies had rejuvenated him immensely, but it was the healing waves of unconditional love from Ellison which had filled him with supreme confidence and assurance. Eli Stoddard was going to be sent back to the Hell from which he had sprung. For the sake of the world, and because the Spirits had asked it of him, Blair was going to complete the task Vince had begun so many years ago. Now he knew why the Spirits had included the older man in this mission. Vince had started the task when he'd killed Stoddard; the Spirits had given him the opportunity to be around at the finish. 

Coming up alongside Ellison, Blair held out two of the medicine bundles. "Put these in your pockets, Jim. That way Eli won't sense you're coming." 

Eyeing them dubiously, Ellison stuck one in each jacket pocket. "I thought you said those things were charms of protection." 

"They are," Sandburg patiently informed him. "If he can't sense you, he can't set a trap and hurt you. Once he sees or hears you, however, the bundles should provide some protection from his magic." 

"If you say so." The Sentinel didn't appear all that convinced, but he didn't argue. "What about you? Will those other two do the same for you?" 

"Not exactly." Sandburg avoided his eyes. "Come on, let's get going; it's getting late." 

He hadn't gone two steps when a large hand clamped onto his arm and held him immobile. 

"What the hell do you mean, `not exactly'?" Ellison queried, a dangerous rumble in his voice. "I thought two were for me, and two were for you." 

Sandburg sighed and told himself that he should've known better than to try to pull one over Ellison. He met the other man's eyes and said gently, "Jim, I made these protective charms for your use. These other two are for backup in case the two you carry, fail for some reason. Nothing is going to work for me. There is no magic that will keep Eli from sensing me; that will keep me invulnerable from his magic." 

"What?!" roared Ellison, anger and fear rising in equal proportions. 

"I'm sorry if I deceived you; I thought you understood. Eli and I are equals in this way; if he's to be vulnerable to me, then I must be vulnerable to him. Neither of us can have an advantage. When we get to the commune and confront Eli, I-and only I-can fight him. Otherwise, it wouldn't be right, or fair." 

The Sentinel's moral side agreed whole-heartedly with that philosophy. At this moment, however, Ellison was completely unwilling to listen to the ethical portion of himself. He wanted his lover safe. 

"Then why the hell did you let me come along if you won't let me help you!" he shouted, using his temper to hide his mounting fear. 

"Because I knew you would follow me if I'd tried to come alone," Sandburg answered evenly. "If you came upon Eli, and I wasn't with you, Eli could hurt you very badly or possibly kill you. The only way I could keep you from coming after me would be to use my skills against you. I couldn't do that, Jim. I can't hurt you." 

That last quiet statement pierced Ellison's protective anger and he stared helplessly at the shaman. "Blair." 

"I know, my love. I know." Laying a palm along a cool cheek, Blair smiled. "Remember my promise to you: I will do everything I can to remain here. That includes being as careful as I can, but I must do this alone. Please understand that, Jim." 

Ellison squeezed his eyes shut as he fought a fierce battle with his overwhelming need to protect the younger man. The war raged within for long minutes before he finally conceded defeat. Admit it, Jimmy boy, it's not like you could be of any real help against someone like Stoddard, he acknowledged heavily. What good are a gun and fists against a dead shaman? Opening his eyes, he nodded wearily, "All right, Chief. We'll do it your way." If I must. 

Sandburg heard the unspoken words. Smiling gently, he reached up and kissed Ellison, slowly and tenderly. Then, drawing back, he tilted his head in the direction of the farmhouse. Nodding once more, Ellison took point and strode briskly off into the trees. 

Ninety minutes later, Jim held up his hand and came to a halt behind a large birch tree. "We're here." 

Pressing close to the cop's back, Sandburg peered around a broad shoulder. He refrained from informing the other man that he had been aware for quite some time that they were approaching their destination. Sandburg had made a vow to himself that he wasn't going to constantly shove his unearthly abilities in Ellison's face. 

A few short yards past the tree line was the battered remnants of a small wooden shed; only one wall and a portion of the slanted roof remained. Squatting dismally several hundred feet beyond that was a ramshackle farmhouse. Some four stories high, it was a sad portrait of peeling paint and rotting boards. Its many windows were completely absent of glass and resembled nothing more than empty eyes. Large sections of roof shingles had vanished, leaving the upper floor exposed to the chronically wet weather. Even though he claimed no special abilities of his own, Ellison still felt a chill shoot up his spine at sight of the decrepit shell. An air of brooding evil and dark expectancy hung thickly over the house. 

Glancing over his shoulder at the man behind him, Ellison grimly asked, "Does he know you're here?" 

There was no getting around that query. Hating himself yet again for placing his lover directly in the path of danger, Blair answered truthfully, "I'm sure he's known for at least the last fifteen minutes." 

To his surprise, Ellison merely gave a thoughtful grunt. "Is there anyway for you to tell if he's still unaware that I'm here?" 

Puzzled by that question, but willing to play along, Blair said slowly, "I'm not getting any feeling that the medicine bundles have failed. Eli shouldn't know about you yet. It's only after he sees or hears you that you will become visible to him." 

"So I should be able to get in unnoticed." 

"Yeah, I guess so." Sandburg gave the big detective a troubled look. "What are you up to, Jim?" 

"A little battlefield strategy, that's all." The reply was slightly evasive. 

Frowning, Sandburg warned, "Jim, remember you can't..." 

"Help you. Yeah, I remember." It was clear from Ellison's irritated tone that the caveat was still a sore point. "But it doesn't mean I can't be in the building, does it?" 

Regarding him somewhat uneasily, Sandburg admitted, "No, you can be in the building." 

"Good." 

Ignoring Sandburg's lingering suspicions, Ellison launched himself from behind the tree. Running in a low crouch, he fetched up against the crumbling wall of the shed. To his intense displeasure, Sandburg was at his side in seconds. He gave the younger man a glare. 

Blair returned the hot look with one of his own. "He already knows I'm here. What the hell use is it to leave me skulking in the damn trees?" 

The cop didn't have a ready answer for that tart statement. Scowling blackly, he muttered, "At least wait a few minutes before you follow me in. Give me time to get set before he knows you're in the house." 

As Sandburg growled, "Get set for what, damn it!", Ellison made the final dash to the house. 

His sprint ended at the kitchen door. It was a sorry excuse for a portal, sagging limply from one, rusted hinge. Praying that he could slip inside the halfopen door without jarring what had to be an extremely squeaky hinge, Ellison flattened himself against the far jamb and slid into the gray dimness. 

He didn't get a chance to adjust his vision. 

As he was drawing his first breath of moldy, musty air, Ellison was hit from the left side by a blow forcible enough to stagger him. Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he swiftly jumped back, crashing into a splintered pantry door. The wicked glint of a knife flashed by, missing his face by inches. Ellison's eyes widened as he spotted his assailant. 

"Quinn!" he spat, setting himself into a fighting crouch. "How the fuck did you get here?" 

"Surprised to see me, Ellison?" A wide, jeering grin spread across the narrow face. Clad in a dusty, blue prison uniform, thin blond hair hanging lankly around his head, Dawson Quinn tossed the large, double-edged knife back and forth between his hands. Pale blue eyes sparkled maliciously. 

"I told you I'd get you, one way or the other," taunted Quinn. "Are you ready to die, cop?" 

At that moment, unnoticed by either combatant, Sandburg slipped into the filthy kitchen. He froze, horrified, at the tableau in front of him. 

"In your dreams, Quinn," snarled Ellison. His eyes never left the deadly blade. "I don't know how the hell you got out of prison, but I'm sure as hell going to put you back in, you fucking murderer." 

"In your dreams, cop." 

Lunging forward, Quinn brought the knife slashing upward. Having anticipated this move, Ellison was no longer there. Leaping aside, he kicked out in a scything sweep, catching the convict across his right kneecap. Bellowing as his leg collapsed beneath him, Quinn stabbed wickedly at the Sentinel. Ellison grabbed for the knife as the other man went down, but missed it. His head jerked around at a terrified call of his name. 

"Jim!" Sandburg was standing tensely just inside the door. Face pale, eyes wide and intent, he was obviously trying to find some way to get between the two combatants. 

His attention on Sandburg for the moment, Ellison didn't see the lightening quick move by Quinn. The detective cursed lividly as he felt the swift, burning pain along his left forearm. 

"Stay where you are, Chief!" called Ellison, ignoring the blood dripping down his hand. "I mean it, Sandburg." 

Subsiding with poor grace, Sandburg stopped trying to interfere. He cursed himself for calling the cop's name; it was a wonder he hadn't gotten Ellison killed when he'd distracted him. Fists clenched tightly at his side, Blair shook with his need to protect his lover, but he dared not use his skills while Ellison was in such close proximity to the other man. 

Ellison, meanwhile, was starting to tire of the deadly game of cat and mouse. Deciding to follow the old adage "The best defense is a good offense", he abruptly charged the knife-wielding convict. The cop wrapped a hand around the killer's right wrist and slammed it repeatedly against the stained Formica countertop, hoping to make the man drop the knife. Grunting and swearing, Quinn shoved his free hand under Ellison's chin and pushed upward. Sharp pain shooting through his neck, breathing becoming impaired, Ellison brought up his right hand and smashed his fist into the thin face. It took three hard hits before the convict gasped and dropped his hand in order to protect his face. 

Still locked together, the two men grappled and stumbled about the ruined kitchen. Finally, it appeared to the closely watching Sandburg, that Ellison's greater body mass was giving the cop the upper hand. He had Quinn's knife hand bent upward, tight against the skinny chest and the killer's fingers were slowly, but inexorably, opening. Eyes narrowed and desperate, Quinn shoved against Ellison with all his strength. Stumbling backward against a broken table, Ellison lost his balance and crashed through it, bringing the escaped convict with him. There was a loud thud as they hit the floor; a strangled grunt sounded, then both men stiffened and fell silent. 

<<<>>>

Simon cursed as his cell phone gave a strident ring just as he was inserting the key into his car door. Quickly opening the door and sliding in, he pulled out his phone. 

"Banks," he snarled. 

"This is Matthews, Captain." It was one of the Major Crime detectives. "A fax came through about fifteen minutes ago. You're not going to like it." 

"What does it say?" As Banks was speaking, he swiftly backed out of his driveway and pointed the Taurus toward police headquarters. 

"It's from the warden at Beckham State Prison. Dawson Quinn is out." 

"What?! When did this happen?" 

"According to the fax, he went over the wall early yesterday afternoon." Matthews' tone was disgusted. 

"They're just now telling us?" Banks was incredulous. "With all the known history between Quinn and Ellison, they waited over twelve hours to tell us?!" 

"I just spoke with Associate Warden Fitzpatrick. Mr. Fitzpatrick reports that Warden Meyers felt positive that Quinn couldn't have gotten very far, so he only notified the sheriff's office and the state police. It wasn't until this morning, when there hadn't been any sightings, that the warden authorized notifying us." Matthews paused for a second, then said quietly, "There's something you should know, Captain." 

The hairs on the back of his neck rising, Banks asked tightly, "What?" 

"It's after seven o'clock and Ellison isn't here," Matthews answered bluntly. What the detective left unsaid was the unofficial bullpen rule which stated the senior detective was always the first one in for his shift. 

Banks felt a weight lift. "Don't panic, Matthews," he advised dryly. "Ellison should be at his loft. He's come down with some sort of nasty bug and his doctor ordered him to take a few days off." Knowing there would be questions asked as to why the captain was pulling his chief detective off a sensational murder case, Banks had concocted the cover story during the night. 

A relieved sigh gusted over the phone. 

"Send an unit over there to make contact with Jim," ordered Simon. "They're to stay on outside watch until I tell them differently." 

"Yes, sir." 

"I'll be there in fifteen to twenty minutes; everybody hold tight until I get in. Oh, and Matthews," Banks added, almost as an afterthought, "tell Brown and Rafe they've inherited the Reynolds case." 

"Yes, sir," repeated the detective, then he hung up. 

Seventeen minutes after that conversation, Simon Banks got off the elevator and, threading his way through the crowded corridor, made his way toward Major Crime. He had barely stepped a foot through the double doors when he was surrounded by a swarm of anxious-faced detectives. 

Stomach plummeting to his feet, Banks demanded, "What?" 

"The uniforms called in a few minutes ago," reported Rafe. "Ellison isn't at the loft and his SUV is gone." 

Immediately frozen with dread, Banks forced himself to think logically. "How do we know he isn't inside? Just because he didn't answer the door?" 

"No, sir," Brown answered. "When Ellison didn't respond to their calls, Ratzlaff and Eckstein got the building superintendent to let them into the condo." Anticipating the next question, he said, "There was no sign of struggle." 

"Thank god for small favors," sighed Banks. He headed for his office, trailed by a stream of detectives. 

"Where could Jim be?" queried an apprehensive Matthews. "If he's sick, he should be home in bed." 

"Yeah, he should," muttered Banks as he was hanging up his coat. A random thought struck and he stiffened. "Where's that magician guy? Shaman?" He looked around at a sea of blank faces. Temper slipping, Banks snapped, "Is he at his hotel? Well?" The police captain glared at Brown. 

Not seeing the connection to the discussion at hand, Brown exchanged a bewildered glance with his partner. "I'll just go check on that, Captain." He went out to his desk to make the call. 

While waiting for the information, Banks walked around and sat down behind his desk. Sticking a cigar in his mouth, he attempted to project an aura of unruffled leadership. The atmosphere in his office was fairly crackling with taut nerves and genuine concern. For all his brusque manner, Ellison was greatly respected by his colleagues. 

A few strained minutes later, Brown returned to the office. "The front desk clerk at the Renaissance says that Sandburg went out yesterday morning with some guy and hasn't been back since." The burly cop hesitated, looking uncertain of the reception of his next bit of news. "I asked for a description of the man and it sounds like Ellison, Captain." 

"It would," growled Banks irritably, chomping on his cigar. 

Damn it, Jim, what sort of mess have you gotten yourself into this time? And where the hell are you? A sickening realization hit. That info on Manson that Jim was looking at last night; it was a farmhouse out by Cascade National Forest, which is only about thirty miles west of Beckham. If Jim's headed out there with that phony Sandburg, if he really believes all that shit the kid's told him, then Jim could run head-on into something a hell of a lot more dangerous than a con man's lies. 

Coming to a quick decision, Banks rose and started barking orders. 

"Brown, Rafe, you're with me." He made his way over to the coat tree and retrieved his coat. "Matthews, call the sheriff's office and have them send a couple of deputies to meet us at the junction of Highway 37 and Route 45; that's got a nice, wide rest area where we can land the chopper. Tell the sheriff that we have good reason to believe Quinn is holed up at an old farmhouse out that way. Tell him that we suspect he has one of our detectives." 

Bewildered but obedient, Brown and Rafe hurriedly snatched up their coats and dashed out after their swiftly moving captain. 

<<<>>>

Coughing and choking on the resultant dust from the crash, Blair ran to the fallen men and dropped to his knees. Heart racing, cold sweat pooling in his armpits, he had just reached out a shaky hand when a groan came from Ellison. 

"Jim! Are you all right?" he asked frantically. "Are you hurt.?" 

Ellison halted the panicked babbling by rolling over, dislodging the convict on top of him. Quinn slipped limply onto his back; the haft of the knife protruded clearly from his chest. The faded blue eyes were blank and staring. Sinking back onto his heels, Blair ran a trembling hand over his face. He forced himself to take deep, measured breaths. 

Also on his knees by now, Ellison regarded the body dispassionately. "Well, he swore he wasn't going to spend the rest of his life in prison. Seems like Quinn got his wish." 

Putting a hand on one knee, the cop lumbered to his feet, hiding his winces as various newly-acquired aches and pains made themselves known. Not at all deceived, Sandburg was instantly at his side, hands running determinedly over the big body. Feeling a wet stickiness, he gasped out, "Jim, you're bleeding! You're hurt!" *How did this happen? When did this happen? Oh, god, please not when I distracted him! * Wrapping an arm around the trim waist, Sandburg attempted to lead Ellison back out the kitchen door. "Come on, man. I'll get you to a hospital." 

Ellison gently, but firmly, eased out of the loving hold. "I'm fine, Chief," he started, but Sandburg was insistent. 

"You're hurt, Jim; you need a doctor!" 

"Chief, listen to me. No, just listen, okay?" urged Ellison softly, hands coming up on their own volition to cup the fearful face. "Yeah, I'm cut up some, and I'm probably going to need a few stitches, but all that can wait. Honestly." Seeing the blind look of panic easing from the azure eyes, he smiled. "That's better. I'm really all right, and I know you can feel it, too." 

Drawing a few deep, calming breaths, Blair nodded. "Yeah, I can," he admitted somewhat reluctantly. He peeled off his shirts and, grabbing up his tee shirt, proceeded to rip it into wide strips. These, he used to wrap the freely bleeding gash on the cop's left forearm. 

Ellison ground his teeth. Blair was being as gentle as possible, but it still hurt. Within minutes, the blood flow had eased to a slim trickle. 

"There you are," Sandburg said, wrapping the last few inches, then tying the material off. "That should hold you until we can get you to an ER." 

"Should do," Ellison agreed, cautiously flexing his fingers to make sure they weren't impaired. 

Sandburg reached down and retrieved his flannel shirt from where he'd tossed it. He shrugged into the garment and buttoned it, but didn't take the time to tuck it back into his jeans. "What's next?" 

The Sentinel looked around the dirty kitchen then, eyes falling on Quinn, he sighed. "I suppose it's inevitable that Stoddard now knows I'm here." 

"Quite so." The older shaman's voice came from a deep shadow in the far corner. 

Whipping around at this new threat, Ellison instinctively placed himself between the danger and his lover. Hissing in exasperation, Sandburg stepped around the cop to confront his nemesis. 

A wide smile on his blanched, mottled face, Stoddard emerged fully from the shadow. "I had really hoped, my dear Detective Ellison, that you would've taken my warning to heart and not pushed yourself into needless danger," he said cheerfully. "I'd already arranged for a little insurance in the form of this unfortunate gentleman, but I had hoped his services wouldn't be necessary." Stoddard waved a careless hand at Quinn's cooling body. 

"Not very good insurance," scoffed Ellison, nerves twitching. "Then again, Quinn always did believe his own hype." 

"Quite true." Stoddard shrugged. 

A minute flick of the insane shaman's hand, and Sandburg was throwing himself against Ellison, knocking them both to the dirty floor. As the cop fell, he felt a wave of heat flash by his head. It hit something behind them and exploded with a hurtful brilliance. 

"Let the games begin!" Stoddard gave a wild laugh and vanished from where he had stood. 

Scrambling up from beside Ellison, Sandburg ordered, "Stay here!" Then he, too, disappeared. 

Reaching his own feet, Ellison forcibly shut down his rising anxiety. Determinedly, he sent out his hearing, straining to find Sandburg. He had a location almost immediately; below him and off to the right. They must be in the basement. Five minutes of increasingly frenzied hunting finally found the door to the basement in a cramped hallway running toward the front of the farmhouse. Not caring if this door squeaked and gave him away, Ellison tore it open and bounded down the rickety steps. 

The steps led to a large, cool area that ran the whole length and breadth of the house. Sometime in the past, it had been partitioned into several smaller rooms with rough pieces of plywood. The cellar floor was unfinished and consisted of loose dirt. The detective no longer needed his hypersensitive hearing to find the two men; loud crashes and bright flashes of light came from the furthest room. Ellison ran toward it and skidded through the door; instantly, he dropped to the dirt floor to avoid an energy ball aimed at his head. 

"I fucking told you...leave Jim alone!" Incensed, Sandburg flung out an arm and sent Stoddard flying into a pile of old, disused furniture. 

Regaining his feet, Ellison moved to stand next to his lover, but stopped when the shaman shook his head emphatically. 

"No, Jim; stay over there, away from me." Sandburg watched warily as Stoddard slowly climbed to his feet. The younger shaman's face already bore the evidence of the fierce struggle-there were numerous oozing scratches, and a large, purpling bruise covered all of his left cheek. "You can't help me, remember?" 

Unwillingly reminded of this stricture, the cop remained where he was. Shoulders tight with tension, jaw muscle jumping furiously, he watched in impotent fury as Blair barely dodged a deadly energy blast. 

"How like you, dear Blair," Stoddard taunted, sending wave after wave of energy hurtling toward the younger shaman. The last halo clipped a flannelcovered shoulder, sending Sandburg tumbling into an empty metal cupboard. 

"You're actually going to play by the rules, aren't you?" continued Eli mockingly as Blair rolled to his feet with a slight groan. "How honorable. I do hope you don't expect the same of me?" 

Before either man could divine his intentions, Stoddard had spun to one side and flung out a hand. The energy ball caught Ellison square in his right shoulder, spinning him around before knocking him to the floor. Gritting his teeth against the pain of the burn, Ellison shakily got to one knee. Well, Blair's medicine bundles must be doing some good; I've no doubt that blast would've caused a hell of a lot more damage without them. He looked up through tearing eyes to see Sandburg start his way, a look of fear on his face. 

"Chief, no!" he shouted in horror, but it was too late. 

Completely focused on his lover, Blair never saw Stoddard raise both arms. The double energy bolt caught Sandburg full on, picking him up and slamming him against the concrete outside wall. Pinned in a fierce red glare, he jerked and convulsed as wave after wave of sparking energy shot through him. A garbled scream of agony was torn from his throat. The bolts finally dissipated and Sandburg slid limply down the wall. 

"Blair!" Roaring his lover's name, Ellison flew to his feet. His shoulder and arm pain were submerged beneath a fury greater than he had ever known. Vision gone a deep red, he threw himself at the gloating madman. Promises of non-interference forgotten, his only thought was to annihilate the man who had injured his lover. 

Shaking his head, Stoddard raised his arm, hand up held. Instantly, Ellison was halted in his tracks by the sensation of heavy fingers clamped about his throat. The phantom fingers began to tighten and Ellison was soon fighting for every breath, clawing at his throat to try to ease the pressure on his windpipe. A wave of Stoddard's hand and the cop found himself dangling several feet in the air, his feet kicking at nothing. 

"I could kill you, too, I suppose," mused Stoddard, eyes narrowed in thought. Suddenly, his eyes opened wide and he gave a smile of unabashed cruelty. "But, I think I'll let you live," he gleefully told the struggling cop. "What could be more enjoyable than letting you live in full knowledge that you've failed yet again? I mean, you couldn't prevent either your mother or your wife from walking out on you, all eight of your men died because you failed to notice that surface-to-air missile in time; you let your partner get killed by the kidnappers you were both supposed to be hunting because you were too busy fucking his girlfriend; and now this pathetic attempt to save your worthless lover." 

Laughing uproariously, Stoddard causally flicked his fingers. Ellison went flying through the air to land with a thump on the hard ground halfway across the room. Over his wheezing gasps as he tried to draw air back into starved lungs, Ellison heard the shaman's maniacal laughter grow and grow, until it echoed throughout the entire farmhouse. 

Stoddard's laughter abruptly snapped off the exact same moment Ellison heard it-a low, rumbling groan that seemed to originate from the very ground under them. Lurching to both knees, a hand cradling his bruised throat, Ellison watched as the shaman cast a bewildered glance around him. A particularly loud groan sent Stoddard staggering and caused him to exclaim, "What the hell?" 

"Very apt choice of words." The voice was a weak rasp, but full of fierce determination. 

Heart leaping with fresh hope, Jim's head snapped to the right. 

Sandburg was on his feet. His back was propped heavily against the wall for support, his legs were visibly trembling with the effort of remaining upright, but he was standing. Dark eyes glared with deadly purpose out of a whitened face. An attempt to take in a deep breath caused Sandburg to cough; to Ellison's renewed horror, a thin trickle of blood spilled over the full lower lip. Both arms were held out rigidly; the fingers pointed toward the dirt floor beneath Stoddard. 

"What.?" began the older shaman, only to break off and stumble badly as the ground below his feet groaned and gave a violent upward twitch. 

As both Ellison and Stoddard watched with stunned eyes, the dirt floor under the evil shaman heaved and spat clouds of dust and small rocks into the air. This continued, growing in intensity and ferocity, until holes began appearing in a circle around the shocked Stoddard. Another violent twitch and the smaller holes converged into a large, gaping cavity. The crazed shaman was left hanging in mid-air. Abruptly, great geysers of flame burst from the hole, engulfing the screaming Stoddard. 

"No! No! This is impossible! You can't...you _can't_!" 

Fighting off an urge to fall into a gray void due to the noxious stench of burning, rotted flesh, Ellison blinked repeatedly to clear his eyes of oily smoke. 

Another upheaval came from under the stricken shaman. There were suddenly dozens of twisted, blackened hands pulling at the burning figure, fiercely tugging him down into the fiery chasm. A final hard yank from the spectral hands, one last wail of denial and Stoddard vanished into the hole. As his head disappeared, a final gush of flames shot out, and then, they, too, were gone. 

The earth flowed and rippled around the hole. In seconds, there was only a smooth dirt floor, unmarred by even the scuff of a foot. 

Wide eyes going back to Sandburg, Ellison was stunned to find the younger man was smiling. 

"I told you to leave Jim alone," Sandburg whispered to the spot where Stoddard had so recently stood. His eyes slid over to meet Ellison's and, incredibly, the smile widened. Two seconds later, the smile congealed and Blair's eyes rolled up in his head. He pitched heavily to the ground. 

Scrambling frantically over the dirt floor, Jim bent over the fallen man. With trembling hands, he gently lifted Blair off the dirt and cradled him against his chest. Massive tremors shook the compact body, causing Sandburg's limbs to twist and jerk. 

"Chief?" Dread high in his heart, Ellison gently brushed loose hair away from the blanched face. For the first time since they'd met, Blair's skin felt icy to the Sentinel's touch. 

Dread morphed into outright terror. 

"Chief...Blair, please," pleaded the anguished cop. 

Inch by tortuous inch, the translucent eyelids lifted. Azure eyes glazed with pain gazed dully up at him. Astonishingly, Blair forced a weak smile. He attempted to speak, but that only brought on a spate of harsh, wracking coughs. Ellison watched in terror as the trickle of blood coming from his lover's mouth turned into a small stream. 

"Chief, no," he insisted, shaking violently. He pulled the younger man tighter against him. "You promised me. You promised me!" 

Another convulsion hit; Sandburg jerked and moaned, more blood gushing from his mouth. His eyelids drifted down over increasingly blank eyes. 

"No! God, no!" Clutching Blair tightly to him, Jim paid no heed to the hot tears coursing down his cheeks. "I won't let you," he raged, pulling the shuddering body even closer. "Do you hear me, Sandburg? I won't let you leave me!" 

"Jim." It was less than a whisper. A final, convulsive shudder and the frail body stilled. 

Screaming his agony to the uncaring room, Ellison felt the world seemingly dissolve around him. Catching sight of the approaching darkness, he welcomed it with open arms. 

<<<>>>

Staring numbly through the glass window into the crowded hospital room, Simon Banks felt as though his reality had fractured and shifted. His uncomprehending gaze was fixed on the still, pale form hooked up to hordes of medical machinery. So absorbed was he, that he failed to notice someone had come up beside him until the other man had spoken twice. 

"How's Ellison, Captain?" Brown repeated the anxious query. 

"Not good, Henry." The police captain shook his head. "For every hour that Jim's been here, he's deteriorated further. He's now on a ventilator; he quit breathing on his own two hours ago. His heart rate keeps slowing." 

"But he didn't seem that badly injured at the farmhouse!" 

"One nasty knife wound, which was handled by stitches, and a minor shoulder burn," confirmed Banks. "The doctors have no idea why he's comatose." 

When Ellison had collapsed at the scene and couldn't be aroused, Banks had wondered if he'd slipped into one of his fugue states; given the circumstances in which he'd been discovered, that wouldn't have been surprising. But Jim's fugue states had never before caused him to quit breathing, nor had they ever affected his heart rate. If a fugue state had been the culprit, reasoned Banks, surely the countless needle sticks and intrusive examinations by the medical staff would've brought him around. No, something else was at fault. 

Maybe it was something from the farmhouse, some long-forgotten pesticide or other contaminant. Simon shivered, the memory of breaking into that ancient, dilapidated house suddenly overwhelmed him. When Rafe had stumbled over Dawson Quinn's body in the kitchen, Banks had been cautiously optimistic about Ellison's safety and had ordered a search be made for the missing man. However, the cloying darkness had resisted their flashlights, making it almost impossible to maneuver. They had stumbled clumsily about the first floor until a sudden noise had given them a direction to follow. 

To his dying day, Simon knew he would never forget that soul-curdling scream of anguish. It had raised all the hairs on his body and plunged a shaft of ice through his heart. That tormented cry of denial should have alerted him to what he would find, but it hadn't. Banks had still been shocked rigid when he'd burst into that filthy room to discover Jim Ellison rocking violently back and forth, clutching a decaying corpse tightly to his chest. A decaying corpse which still retained the occasional hank of long, curly chestnut hair on its skull. It had taken four sheriff's deputies to break Ellison's hold on that rotting bunch of bones and putrid flesh. 

How Blair Sandburg's long-buried body had ended up being cradled in Jim's arms was a mystery Simon Banks was going to solve. Although he didn't know the how's and why's of it, he had no doubt whose corpse it was. He refused to believe the fantastic story Jim had relayed to him the prior evening in his office. It didn't fit in with the cop's black and white world, and Simon was determined to find the rational and logical explanation. Banks was absolutely certain of one detail: The illusionist, that phony Sandburg, was at the bottom of everything that had happened, and he was going to bring the murdering con man to justice if it took him the rest of his life. He once again severely castigated himself over his failure to ask Naomi Sandburg if she knew, or had known, Vince Deal. As shocking as the woman's news had been, that still didn't excuse his poor investigative behavior-he'd been as mentally flustered as a rookie cop fresh out of the academy. 

Running a weary hand over his face as he turned to leave, Banks froze in mid-step. An alarm shrilled; the slow, but regular rhythm on the cardiac monitor had suddenly become violently erratic. 

<<<>>>

The darkness lifted as abruptly as it had descended. Suddenly starved for oxygen, Jim sucked in a huge, shuddering gasp. He blinked repeatedly to clear his foggy vision. 

He appeared to be in a clearing. Ancient broadleaf trees towered high into the sky; their branches were thick with green leaves. Soft grasses and ferns were underfoot. The sweet scent of flowers and other growing things filled the air. There were flashes of color as multitudes of birds darted among the trees; their clear trills enhanced, rather than disturbed, the peaceful stillness. It could have been Ellison's concept of Paradise, except. 

He was alone...and he was being watched. 

His covert ops trained instincts could practically feel the eyes on him. While the gaze did not feel precisely hostile, neither did it seem altogether benign. The sensation was too alien and unformed to be completely catalogued. Pleased to discover that he still had his enhanced senses, Jim attempted to scan the area around the glade. They were of no assistance. 

"Why are you here?" 

Startled by the soft, clear voice, which seemed to have come from midair, Ellison whirled. Again, he searched the surrounding forest, but could detect nothing. 

"Why are you here?" repeated the calm voice. 

The truth tumbled from Ellison. "I want to be with Blair, please." 

"Why?" Although it was framed as a question, there was no real curiosity in the level voice. 

It was a legitimate query; Jim struggled to answer properly. "I love him. I know I haven't the right to expect any favors, that I haven't earned the right to love someone as special as him, but I do." 

"We see." The voice was thoughtful...and very disconcerting. One moment, it was male, the next, female; a scant second later, it was both at once. "Do you anticipate your wish being granted?" 

"No," replied Ellison honestly. His throat tightened to the point he had to force his next words out. "I don't suppose I have the right to expect anyone that beautiful and pure to come to me, not after what I've done in my life." 

"Ah, yes, the actions you have performed. Why, if you are so ashamed of these behaviors, did you perform them in the first place?" 

Another more than reasonable question, and one Ellison knew he could never answer adequately. Yet he had to try. "At the time," he said haltingly, "I believed those actions were justified. I was in the army and those were my orders." 

"You always obeyed those `orders'." The voice was dispassionate. "Why did you do so? You disapproved of the majority." 

"Because, at the time, I had faith in my commanders. I believed that, although I might not be told the complete story, there were perfectly logical and acceptable reasons for what I was ordered to do. It was only much later that I." 

"Discovered that your superiors had used and betrayed you." There was a small pause, then another query came. "Why did you follow Blair Sandburg to this place? You have been told you would be together in another life. Are you so very impatient that you cannot wait?" Now there was a slight hint of displeasure in the voice. 

Heart sinking, Jim knew that he had lost, that he'd just forfeited any chance he might've once had of being reunited with Blair. But something inside would not let him surrender that last, final, desperate hope. "Not impatient, no." Ellison fought to express himself, to just this once, get his words right so that their meaning would be crystal clear to all. 

"All my life." The words clogged his throat, but he pushed past them. "All my life, I've never been good enough, never been able to measure up to people's expectations. My mother left because she couldn't handle my enhanced senses. Dad despised the fact that his first-born was different and called me a freak. He even taught my younger brother to distrust and loathe me because of them. 

"When I entered the army, I forced myself to become the perfect officer and Ranger. But, at the end, when I knew I could no longer live with my commanders' notions of right and wrong, I knew I had failed again. Then, I married and I tried, I really tried, to be the best husband Carolyn could have had. Yet, I was never ambitious enough for her, professionally or socially." Ellison heaved a deep breath. To expose his soul like this was akin to having his skin peeled off layer by agonizing layer, yet if it meant even the smallest chance of being with Blair. There was no choice to make. 

"I don't mean to sound as if I'm whining; I'm not," Jim defended himself. "I'm quite aware that I've had a much better life than many. I've had good friends in Simon Banks and the rest of Major Crime. But there was always something missing, you see. Inside. Then along comes Blair and, suddenly, that empty spot has been filled. Blair knows the awful things I've done, and he _still_ loves me. For the first time ever, I've measured up; I've lived up to someone's wishes. He's the only one who has ever loved me enough to promise to stay. 

"I don't claim to have the wisdom to explain why certain souls connect; I just know they do. From the moment I saw him, I knew I had to protect, love and cherish him. There was no conscious decision to make; it just was, as primal and natural as breathing." To his everlasting shame, Ellison found himself leaking despairing tears. "Oh, please, can't you understand? I just want to be with Blair. I have to." 

There was no answer beyond the calls of the birds. 

A twig cracked off to Ellison's left. Once more, he attempted to visually pierce the tree growth, but it was too thick. His hearing worked excellently, however, and he smiled shakily through the tears. 

"Over there?" asked a husky voice. "What do you want me to see over there?" The query was directed at someone-or something-Jim couldn't sense. 

Seconds later, Blair Sandburg strolled into the clearing, stopping dead in his tracks when he caught sight of Ellison. He was dressed in the same black plaid flannel shirt and faded jeans he'd been wearing the day they'd met. 

"Jim!" A melange of expressions chased themselves across the young shaman's face. Finally, a beam of pure joy took ascendance and Blair threw himself across the clearing. 

Jim met him more than halfway. 

Scooping the shorter man up into his arms, he crushed the full lips beneath his. The kiss was long, hot and hard enough to draw blood. Neither man noticed, neither drew back until the need for air forced the separation. 

"Oh, thank you, thank you," whispered Jim into the peace around them. "Thank you for letting me be with him." 

At that, Blair pulled back a little and frowned. "Who are you talking to, Jim?" He couldn't mean The Voice; he's not a shaman... 

"The Voice. It came out of nowhere and asked me why I was here." explained Jim in between nips along the square jawline. "I told It I wanted to be with you; It made me explain myself, and then It brought you to me." He bit down on the prominent Adam's apple and sucked. 

"Oh, god, Jim; you didn't!" *Oh, god, what did Jim say to the Spirits? He might be stuck with me for forever. I know he loves me, but Eternity is a mighty damn long time. He needs to be given an opportunity to really think about this first.* 

The note of horror penetrated Ellison's relief-filled haze. Raising his head, he gave Sandburg a bewildered look. "What's wrong, Chief? I thought...I thought you wanted to be with me." His life-long insecurities abruptly washed over him. "Have you changed your mind?" 

Blair couldn't stand that he had put that look of fear into those beautiful cornflower blue eyes. "No, man, never! I love you, and nothing will ever change that." 

Relaxing, Jim still felt somewhat confused. "What's wrong, then? Why are you so upset that I told The Voice I wanted to be with you?" 

Pulling out of the embrace, Sandburg ran a hand through his hair in frustration. *Man, how am I going to get Jim to see the possible consequences of his words?* 

"Chief?" 

Going back up to the Sentinel, Sandburg put both hands on the broad chest. "Jim, do you know where you are?" 

Flippantly, Ellison thought of replying "With you", but decided against it. Blair looked much too somber for levity. "Not exactly. I suppose it has many names; all depends on what your spiritual beliefs are, I guess." 

Sandburg regarded him with a look of surprised awe. "Not just another dumb cop, are we?" He rewarded Ellison's perspicacity with a deep kiss. 

Hating to remove the silly, loving smile from the handsome face, Blair went on gently, "Words have power, Jim. That's true everywhere, but most especially here. You have to be extremely careful with what you say, or you may wind up binding yourself to something you hadn't really wanted." 

"So?" Jim raised an eyebrow at him. He couldn't understand the other man's agitation. "We want to be together; we agreed on that." 

"Don't you see, Jim? I'd hoped to be able to stay with you in your current life." Sandburg pressed closer and laid his forehead on a strong shoulder. "I didn't expect you to cut short your life; for you to follow me here." 

"You should have. I told you I wasn't going to let you leave me." 

Even racked with agonizing pain, Blair had heard-and felt-the fierce determination with which his lover had spoken those words to him. It was that unflagging force of personal will, Blair realized, that had allowed Ellison to break several spiritual laws and follow him to this place of refuge. However, Blair abruptly remembered what the Spirits had said to him the first time he'd arrived, three years ago. _If it makes you feel better..._

Well, maybe _part_ of it was Jim's doing. 

"I know you told me that we would find each other in another life, but I couldn't take that chance. I couldn't take the chance that we might not be born into the same life, that we might have to wait several lifetimes before we could re-connect." Ellison shuddered and swallowed audibly. "To be separated from you-for any length of time-is my definition of Hell." 

Blair was smiling, although there was a trace of sorrow present, also. "I didn't mean to pull you from your life. Without me being around, you could've remained a cop. Your friends, your city--they will miss you so much, Jim." He lifted his head and regarded his lover with a pensive stare. 

Pressing his lips tenderly against the wide forehead, Jim stated frankly, "Yeah, I suppose Simon and the guys will miss me for a little while, but they'll get over it. However, _I_ can't get over you, Chief. I can't live without you and no one, not even you, can make me do so." 

Tears overflowed the cerulean eyes then, and Blair burrowed close to the muscular body. 

Wrapping an arm around the shaking shoulders, Ellison led his lover over to a patch of thick ferns at the base of a giant maple tree. As he sank down, he tugged the younger man down with him. Settling back against the massive tree trunk, Jim firmly pulled Blair in tightly against him; one large hand gently guided the curly head onto his shoulder. 

A shattering image abruptly came of the last time he'd held his lover. His arms tightened desperately around the warm body and Jim begged, "This is real, isn't it, Blair? I'm not having some damn fugue hallucination? We're both really here and together?" 

A poignant smile graced the full lips. "If you wish it to be real, Jim; it is." 

"It's real," Jim decided happily, burying his face against the silky mass of curls. "Now I've got everything I'll ever need." 

Finally completely at peace for the first time in his life, Jim Ellison sat there, holding the most precious person in his world. The sky was a deep, clear blue, a soft breeze stirred the leaves overhead, and a lovely chorus of birdsong filled the air. Overlying everything, however, was the unique scent of the man beside him and Jim filled his lungs with it until he was dizzy with intoxication from the exotic aroma. Melding perfectly with the quiet of the glen and the birds' trills was the steady, reassuring thumping of Blair's sturdy heart. That sound had quickly become the cornerstone of Jim's existence and he reveled in the knowledge that he would be hearing that soothing sound forever. 

On that thought, Jim raised his head, a small frown pulling at his brows. 

Blair felt the movement and, looking up, saw the expression of unease. "What is it, my love?" 

"We're not going to be separated, even in another life, are we?" Jim asked anxiously. "You never said for sure." 

Blair looked away, biting his lip. 

Jim grew more concerned as long minutes dragged by and Sandburg still hadn't answered his query. 

"Jim," Blair began, then stopped. Hanging his head so that his hair covered his conflicted face, he fought long and hard with his conscience. *Do I really have the right to hold Jim to someone like me; someone with a pedigree like mine? Yet, I'm not the one pushing for Eternity. He's an adult, surely he knows his own mind.* 

Finally, Blair gave a sigh and looked up. "Remember how powerful words are, Jim. Do you truly wish to bind yourself to me for all Eternity?" 

"Yes." Jim's answer was swift and decisive. "With all my heart, with all my soul; I wish to be with you for all Eternity." He leaned over and kissed the uncertain smile off Blair's lips. "I know that you're afraid that I'm going to change my mind down the road, but there's no need for doubt. What I want and need is very simple. You." 

Eyes filling once more, Blair laid possessive claim to the mouth hovering so close to his. Long, lush minutes later, he vowed, "I love you, James Ellison. Forever." 

"I love you, Blair Sandburg," returned Jim promptly. "Forever." 

<<<>>>

Far, far away, in a hospital room in a city made distant by so much more than physical miles, a shrieking alarm screamed a dire warning as the feeble heartbeat it had faithfully monitored, faltered, then stopped. 

Forever. 

PJ  
November 2003 

* * *

End Reared HImself A Throne by PJ: NeedACon@aol.com  
Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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